


Shaping the Negative

by Vulpesmellifera



Series: Craquelure [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Mycroft, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Mycroft, Because Mycroft is a Goddamn Phoenix, Character Study, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Rises Like a Goddamn Phoenix from the Ashes of Musgrave Hall, Post-Canon, Post-TFP, Vulnerable Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-06-02 06:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: There was the elk, the snow, the man who stood beside him, and the tremendouscrackthat opened and spilled forth decades of tumultuous feeling. Now returning to London, Mycroft vacillates between precise control and wild, volcanic urges. As he navigates newfound thoughts and emotions, he enacts a plan no one expected and ends up where not even a Holmes could have predicted.





	1. Cut-Outs and Paste

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, a thousand thanks to my betas, [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom) and [ReynardinePotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReynardinePotter/pseuds/ReynardinePotter). Please check out their works. They’re wonderful people who deserve all the kudos.
> 
> This story bore itself like Athena from the brow, fully formed and fully armored.
> 
> Just kidding. Some parts sprung to life _almost_ like that, but plenty were like pulling teeth. Overall, though, the Mycroft of To Capture Light wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept tapping on my shoulder and whispering, “Hey. I’m here. I went through so much growth in just 4,891 words. I can do more. Just imagine: I return to London, and what do I do? How does it all go down? _Who do I become?_ ”
> 
> I let my mind wander, and with Mycroft as my guide, Shaping the Negative was born. The plan is to post a chapter each Monday and Friday, though that can change depending on RL responsibilities.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story as much as I do.

> _ROTHKO: So, now, what do you see? - Be specific. No, be exact. Be exact - but sensitive. You understand? Be kind. Be a human being, that's all I can say. Be a human being for once in your life! These pictures deserve compassion and they live or die in the eye of the sensitive viewer, they quicken only if the empathetic viewer will let them. That is what they cry out for. That is why they were created. That is what they deserve... Now... What do you see?_
> 
> \- John Logan, _Red_

_The problem with capturing light lies in the keeping of it._ Mycroft’s mind twists around the metaphor, much like his hand twists around the black pocket notebook. The hotel curtains are a heavy damask, and only a sliver of the morning light passes through the white sheers, revealing the edge of the damask as burnt orange. _Light moves like liquid through the air until it hits barriers and bounces back - solids, molecules all packed tightly together such that the photons of light cannot penetrate it_. 

Try to trap light in a box, and you find yourself in a Schrodinger's cat situation: does the glow remain alight inside the box when you yourself can't look in?

 _This is ridiculous._ He sighs, places the bent notebook on the end table, and tries to ignore a craving for the sensation of a cigarette balanced between his fingers. 

The crux of the problem is that a feeling of epiphany, while powerful and life-changing in the moment, is difficult to sustain. Mycroft scratches his temple, staring at his other hand around the notebook. He'd been so sure of himself for so long. _My value is not determined by my value to England, or to the free world._ It's become his mantra, of sorts. His value is what he assigns it, right? And when he rode high on endorphins and an unexpected infatuation with a certain detective inspector, his value rode high. Now, in the dark hours of early January, alone in this hotel, his value seems...difficult to define.

The heater _clicks_. The carpet is a strange muted green and brown pattern found only in the cheapest accommodations. The chair he sits in is uncomfortable with a too-straight back and a too-thin cushion. He doesn’t dare touch the coverlet on the double bed.

All the colors are muted.

He hasn't told anyone that he's back, though he wouldn’t put it past Lady Smallwood or Sir Edwin to know, despite his use of a disguise and alias. 

Greg. Greg he can’t _let_ know. 

His stomach tightens at the thought of Greg. The man left two days before the New Year. They'd spent time gazing out onto the mountains while smoking their last cigarettes - always their last. Greg coaxed him into the hot tub, where they drank scotch and talked about their favorite films and books. They kissed on the rug before the fireplace - as cliche a rendezvous as Mycroft could conceive. Through it all, Mycroft had the sensation of wearing the skin of someone new - someone daring and carefree. 

When Greg left, his skin felt tight, but his lungs felt as if they had too much room, and it was dangerous to take in so much air. 

And he'd _wanted._ He found himself flush with desire like never before. He'd never been available enough for his partners - men who were secure in their sexualities and liberated in their proclivities. Mycroft was abhorrent to the average gay man - he could barely get comfortable enough for an anonymous fuck (never his ideal situation), but neither could he let himself get emotionally entangled with another person. His hot and cold tendencies alienated others. Eventually, he decided he was above it, and destined to live an ascetic life - if one didn't count his material excesses. 

Mycroft _wants_. 

_What do I do?_

Nothing.

 _This, this is the problem with romance and sex, and I do not have the time for this nonsense._ “This is not acceptable,” he says. “Not acceptable.”

Mycroft walks to the window and parts the heavy curtain. His own home is the family seat in London, but it's monitored by the British government. He isn't comfortable with returning to that role, yet. 

This place has an electric tea kettle. As he flips the switch, he’s struck by a memory: he, a child in art class learning the concept of negative space. The teacher placed an old kettle on a stool, and instructed the class to cut out colorful pieces of paper in the shape of the negative space - the open air around the tea kettle and between the spokes and braces of the stool. The cut-out shapes were pasted in their corresponding positions onto a separate piece of construction paper. By filling in the negative space, the shape of the tea kettle and stool was revealed. 

Mycroft’s work was very good. Not only were the shapes in the right proportion to each other and to the objects they surrounded, but they were placed with the highest amount of precision, creating a near perfect inverse of the still life. _In some ways, I’m still there._ Living in that project, cutting the shapes and gluing them to paper, resting in the anonymity of the negative space while the people around him played the part of the objects.

His heart withers at the thought. 

His mother took the project and, with his others, placed them in a closet. Eventually, she cleaned the closet out and they went into the rubbish bin. Not a piece saved.

Mycroft stands now in this tiny, shabby hotel room. He rubs his beard. A signifier of change. He wears his glasses, and comfortable bespoke sepia brown trousers with a black turtleneck. This is a disguise. He figures Anthea and Sherlock are being watched, and likely, he is too. He’s not sure who might be compromised.

There are plans.

He dials a number on the burner phone, and brings it to his ear.

“Hello, old friend,” he smiles as he speaks. “Yes, I’d rather hoped to never speak to you again, but needs must. You remember Opération Décamp? It’s a go, but I am making alterations. I’m staying in England.”

* * *

His new residence is a maisonette in Kensington. There’s underground parking, a communal garden, and a rooftop terrace. It’s within walking distance of Holland Park and Kensington Gardens. The agent is eager to point out the double glazing in the windows, the massive fireplace, and the central heating. “There’s a swimming pool and a workout center,” she says with a blazing white smile and a shake of her gold, dangling earrings. 

He has the locks changed the moment the keys are his. He has the windows replaced with bulletproof glass, and makes them reflective to the outdoors. He pays for it all using funds from a dummy company he set up several years ago. 

His new security team comprises four trained professionals on loan from his old contact, Guillaume Bernard. He’d expected two, but Guillaume insisted on these four with a rotation that allowed for personal time. "You won't regret it, Holmes," he said in a gruff tone over the phone. 

Irina Denault is the leader. She has pale skin, robin’s egg blue eyes, a soft smile, and hair the color of corn silk. She wears a sleek black blouse over slim fitting khakis. Her uncovered arms are corded with a surprising amount of muscle. “It is good to meet you face to face, Mr. Holmes,” she says from the blue sofa. By her ankles is a bag of knitting, the metal needles glinting from the top. 

“Likewise, Irina.” He hands her a cup of tea, and goes back to pour another. From her file, he knows she is in her late thirties, and trained in hand-to-hand combat and medieval weaponry, which makes him curious about the knitting needles.

They’re seated in the lounge area of his flat. The open floor plan holds the dining area at one end, and a fireplace with sofa and chairs at the other. The kitchen can be seen through an open archway with a granite-top island at its center. 

Beside Irina is her husband, Henri Denault. Henri stands about an inch taller than Mycroft, with sleek brown hair pulled into a ponytail at his nape. He has a heart-shaped, angular face with a wide smile. He walks with the poise of a dancer - indeed, Mycroft recalls that when he’d first seen Henri Denault years ago, he’d been a youth studying ballet. With his slender build and fashionable clothes - pale blue button-down and light gray waistcoat over snug sun-bleached blue jeans, he could be a model. “It’s good to see you again, Henri,” Mycroft says as he hands him his cup of tea. 

“Mr. Holmes.” Henri salutes him with his cup of tea balanced on long, white fingers. “Mr. Bernard said to send his condolences on never having the stick removed.” His mouth almost pulls into a smile. 

Mycroft arches his eyebrow. After speaking with Guillaume on the burner phone, everything had happened quickly and through texts. Gui had been cooperative and genial, but this message from him was the first sign of Gui’s old contention with Mycroft - his reservation and caution. Guillaume was hot-blooded and all action. 

Henri wouldn’t likely know what Mycroft and Gui had been to each other. 

“Let him know I appreciate his concern, but it is, as usual, unnecessary.” 

On the other side of Henri is Jean-Michel Martín **.** He’s young, no more than twenty-six, with a shaved head and dark skin. He accepts his cup of tea with a nod and a smile. His green eyes are alight with humor as he assesses their surroundings - Mycroft’s unadorned white walls, simple but expensive furniture, statuary on the fireplace mantle. “ _Merci, monsieur._ ”

The last of this “crack team” - Gui had assured him - is Maximilian Heineck. Max is huge. Six foot four and muscled with a neck as thick as Mycroft’s thigh. His face is wide with weathered creases at his eyes. He’s tanned, with sandy hair shorn close to his head, military style. Max holds himself like an ex-military type. From his file, Mycroft knows he served with the Special Operations Command of the German Army. But he’s relaxed, and his smile is genuine as he accepts his cup with a quiet thank you. Mycroft notices nicotine stains on his fingers. 

“Maxmilian, Jean-Michel, your place is exactly like this one next door.” A rental, instead of an outright purchase. “I believe you’ll find it to your liking. Irina and Henri will stay on the first floor here for the time being.”

He informs them on his position for the civil service - his prior work as a field agent for MI6, followed by a membership in a think tank for MI5, which then lead to a consulting position between the two departments. How that position has become essential to the British government - and how he tires of it. Then, he tells them about her.

“I have a sister who resides in a maximum security psychiatric hospital,” he goes on. “Her intellect surpasses that of anyone currently alive. I don't say that out of a sense of pride. She’s dangerous.” He squeezes his hand around the arm of the leather chair and looks to the fireplace. _Flames and Musgrave Hall still a blackened skeleton_. “She's killed without conscience. She's escaped multiple times from her prison. She has...kidnapped myself and my younger brother for her own amusement." Mycroft forces himself to look his security team in their faces. "I don’t know what she’ll do when I remove myself as her designated guardian. It may be nothing. She’s considered...beyond our reach, as it stands. She didn’t know about my time with Guillaume...and his family. She doesn’t know about this arrangement. I can only think that by acting unpredictably, I might thwart any attempt made by her to...torment me.”

He can tell they want to ask him questions, but he stands, and leaves the room.

* * *

Mycroft soon finds out that his team is gregarious and active. 

The conversations around the flat are sprinkled with multiple languages - French and English primarily, but there is also Russian, German, Spanish, and Italian. Mycroft revels in living in a flat full of polyglots.

Irina often knits while she talks. It looks like a shawl of mulberry and green apple yarns. She smiles as she speaks, a broad smile on mauve pink lips. “I prefer medieval weaponry to guns, but modern security calls for modern weaponry.” She doesn’t just walk across the room, she glides like a wolf across a soft forest floor. Her calisthenics routine is vigorous and beastly, and Mycroft marvels at her stringent focus.

Henri and Jean-Michel spar, shouting insults in French and resorting to dirty tactics when they begin to exhaust themselves. Mycroft never thought he’d be so entertained by the very physicality of two men wrestling on the floor between his dining room and lounge, but here they are.

Maximilian has weights and a punching bag in the flat he shares with Jean-Michel, so Mycroft doesn’t see any of his workouts. Everyone uses the weights, but much of the sparring seems to take place in Mycroft’s flat as if to show off to him. He’s amused by this and allows it. 

Henri cooks, and Max bakes. His home has never been such a tantalizing mix of odors between the curries and sweetbreads. 

The most surprising thing? When Max comes over one day, sweaty still from his workout, and rolls Jean to the floor with a growl, and the two start kissing. Irina laughs and yells at them to get a room, and Henri eggs them on. Jean cries mercy, and Max helps him up from the floor. 

Mycroft has never experienced anything like it. Part of him chafes at the lack of decorum, but this new, free-wheeling part of him wants it. Wants this wild revelry and this casual display of reckless behavior. There was physical intimacy and glancing banter that expressed a level of camaraderie he’d never been witness to inside a home.

_It’s like a family._

Not his family. But someone’s. 

* * *

“Anthea,” he says in the phone. Still the burner. He sits at his dining table with a view onto the neighboring flats across the way. Maisonettes like his with pale grey siding and charcoal grey shutters.

Everything seems grey, lately.

“Mr. Holmes?” His protege’s voice is soft but expectant.

“I’ll be quick. You are to meet an acquaintance of mine by the main entrance of Holland Park this Saturday at 10 am. You will greet her as if seeing an old friend. Her name is Irina. She will take you to where you need to go.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“How does Agent Love?”

“Beside herself with worry at the apparent misplacement of a certain government official,” Anthea replies with a note of humor in her voice.

“Excellent. Saturday.” He hangs up. Crosses one knee over the other. _Greg. When do I call him? Should I call him?_

_No. Not yet. No reason to rush things. Nothing is resolved yet._

His heartbeat picks up anyway on his next phone call.

“Yes, hello?” 

“Mummy. I’m back in the country.”

“Good lord, Mycroft,” she huffs. “What number are you calling from? And so long this time? Have you looked in on your brother?”

“Not yet. I’m getting settled,” Mycroft says.

“And whatever you’re doing is more important than checking in on Sherlock? You know how this thing with your sister has upset him.” The disapproval is like a needle to Mycroft’s chest. “He’s always been a sensitive boy.”

“Yes, Mummy,” he says. “My next task is to look in on him, though I’m quite sure Doctor Watson is up to the task.”

“Oh Mycroft, you can’t go shirking your responsibility. Call your brother, visit him, tell him I’ll see him for her birthday,” she coos. “You do remember, of course?”

“Of course,” and the needle moves further in. 

“Excellent. Ta, Mikey.”

Mycroft grips the phone harder as he replies, “Goodnight, Mummy.”

She’s already hung up.

* * *

Henri opens the door with a gracious smile to Anthea and Irina. Anthea walks in with wide eyes as she looks around the open floor plan of the room and her gaze lands on Mycroft. 

Mycroft rises, his arms gesturing to the flat at large. “Welcome, Anthea.”

Her hands lift a little as she takes a step forward, her body still except for the exudation of nervous energy. Her gaze upon him looks almost like affection. The concern around the corners of her eyes smooths over as she stops herself from hurrying to him, and says, “Mr. Holmes. I am so very pleased to see you.”

Mycroft smiles and his heart tugs as he’s regarded by her familiar blue-eyed stare. He takes in her usual professional dress of a dark blazer over a pencil skirt and hair softly curled about the shoulders, and it feels more like home than his old, cavernous house ever could. “Anthea, it’s a pleasure to see you again. You’ve met Irina. Her husband, Henri Denault. My new security team, along with two more. Henri and Irina shall be staying with me for the time being. They’ll take charge of the housecleaning and meal preparation, with assistance from a Mr. Jean-Michel Martin, and a Mr. Maximilian Heineck. Jean and Max are living in the flat next door.”

Anthea’s eyes flare. They flick over Henri and Irina. “Mr. Holmes, I would have vetted them if - “

“Won’t be necessary. This is part of an operation that was put into place many years ago, outside of England’s interests, and in the interest of myself.”

A distant car horn disturbs the silence of the maisonette. They stare at one another. Her calm demeanor cracks as her lips slacken and her shoulders tense. She asks in a thready voice, “Sir, are you defecting?”

“Not at all.” He releases a breath. “Simply taking precautions.” He smiles at her, hopes it’s his most winning. “Please, sit. We must ‘catch up,’ mustn’t we?”

Anthea clutches her blackberry as she walks across the floor and sinks into the sofa kitty-corner to his chair. Irina brings in a tray with a rose-patterned teapot, two matching cups, and a plate of caramel digestives. Anthea’s favorite. She pours the tea and passes the cups to Mycroft and Anthea. Henri sits across the room at the dining table. Irina joins him, but she does a perimeter check out the windows as she walks the length of the room.

“Why are they living with you?” Anthea asks, placing her cup of tea on a coaster on the table. _She hasn’t taken a sip._ “You’ve refused living with security before.”

_Flashes of a clown suit, a gun that won’t shoot, and then the mocking face of John Watson, after his brother had stolen his secrets and passed out the door with triumph written over his features._

“For peace of mind.” There had been nights in the chalet when he’d been certain an intruder had entered. He called into the darkness, “Sherlock?” and an echoing silence answered him. He didn't dare call for Eurus.

 _The noises ceased with Greg’s arrival._ He blinks the memories away, and focuses on the woman sitting before him.

“Anthea,” he says. “When, years ago, Eurus requested a conversation with James Moriarty as a treat...you were the only person to dispute the consideration. There were tremendously gifted, strategic minds at that discussion, and you advocated for your position admirably. We were - wrong to dismiss your concerns. I’ve - _we’ve_ , paid for these errors. That has lead me to realize it’s time your role was enhanced within our organization.”

Anthea sits upright in the chair, her blackberry still clutched between her knees. “What would my new duties involve?”

He takes a sip of his tea, placing it back in the saucer before answering. “You will take the reins for Sherrinford.”

Anthea pales. “Sir - “

“I can’t trust Lady Smallwood or Sir Edwin. Lady Smallwood comes with too much baggage, and Sir Edwin’s ambitions will one day lead his agenda astray, despite his wishes for England’s safety.” Mycroft exhales, and rubs at the cloth of one knee. “It has to be you.”

Anthea worries her lower lip. “Are you sure you’re not defecting, sir?”

“No, I am merely delegating. You may, of course, consult with me when you feel it is prudent.” Mycroft watches her over his tea cup. “I once considered myself an objective purveyor of Eurus’ skills when in the employ of our country. On a more personal level, I convinced myself that I sought to give her a use, a way to live with meaning, much as I tried with Sherlock. It helped that she made gains for England early on.” He puts his cup on the table with a light _clink_. Speaking of Eurus causes his hands to tremble. “But it enchanted her, tempted her into becoming a force, a thing to be feared, an empowered being who could manipulate high levels of government to her own meaningless end. She allowed herself to become Moriarty’s tool for revenge because it amused her. She’s quiet, now, but I can’t take the risk that she may wake one day. You must remain firm against those who would seek to use her ‘talents.’ It can’t be done, Anthea.” 

Anthea nods, her mouth crooked in a grimace. “But, sir, you’re the one who can stand firm against them - “

Mycroft raises one hand. “It can’t be me. My competency has been called into question. No doubt I will be subjected to evaluation upon my official return. I…” Mycroft stares down at the wood of the coffee table, meandering wood grain in shades of warm honey and syrup browns that begin to bleed into one another. _She’s seen the footage from Sherrinford. She knows the extent of my torment._ “I am not entirely certain that I shall pass the evaluation with flying colors.” A smile flits over his face as he meets her eyes. “It’s not - it’s not that I am beyond all salvation - it is that I am a changed man. I could give them the answers they’re looking for, but I tire of the smoke and mirrors game.” _Glass that isn’t there._

While he’d snipped corners and curves with painstaking precision, Eurus had moved like an amoeba, swallowing his careful precautions and preparations whole. 

Anthea frowns, staring down at the tea cup that cools on the table. “Will you retain her lasting power of attorney?”

“Yes. If anything happens to me, it goes to you and Sherlock. Your duties now will be to ensure that the staff at Sherrinford are safe from Eurus, and that government officials and their proxies do not have access to her. You’ll consult with Sherlock on her direct care. She must be closely monitored.” Mycroft wonders again if he’s doing the right thing, but what else can he do? “She knows me too well, Anthea. I am no longer the right choice to be her keeper, if ever I had been. It must be someone she doesn’t know, someone without shared family history. Someone who can willingly stand up to a group of intellectual giants blinded by their own hubris.”

Anthea smiles, but she seems nervous as her fingers come up to touch her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. “I will do my best, sir.”

“I know you will.” Mycroft almost says the next line - _do not disappoint me_ \- that is part of his usual parlance with subordinates, but he can't muster it. Anthea will do her best, and perhaps she won’t be as _limited_ as Mycroft. 

_Then he is very limited._ He shuts his eyes against his mother’s words as they ring through his head. 

“Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft opens his eyes to see Anthea leaning forward in her chair, watching him. 

“Apologies. Headache.” He loosens his fingers from the fists they’ve become, lays them on his knees, and flexes them to assuage the aches of cramping up. 

Anthea has yet to sip her tea. _Not yet convinced._

“In addition to Sherrinford, some other projects will become your responsibility. Again, I am happy to assist in the capacity of consultant, as needed.”

Anthea stares. 

“I understand this is unusual.” Mycroft rubs his hands together as he speaks slowly. “You’re turning thirty-five. I was not much younger than you when I was tasked by my mentor for greater responsibility. I was twenty-five when I became responsible for Eurus. You are clever; otherwise, I would not have hired you.” He tilts his head at her, one eyebrow raised. “You’ll require an assistant of your own. We’ll vet a set of candidates together.”

“Yes, sir.” Anthea looks almost relieved at his show of control; an order. _We’ll vet a set of candidates together_. She’ll require some pushing before she takes control for herself. 

Anthea reaches for a caramel digestive and her tea. 

Mycroft smiles at her. “It’ll have cooled considerably.”

She smiles back. “As I understand it, this cup of tea is mine to mind.”

Mycroft smile widens as the flutters in his belly calm. _How long had they been there?_

 _How much have I been relying on her loyalty, and her acceptance of this change?_

When Anthea leaves, she hugs him. The sense of being hugged by her - _coconut-scented hair product and is that bergamot_ \- overwhelms Mycroft. He searches his pockets for a handkerchief as she pulls back, keeping his face pointed downward so she can’t see the telltale glimmer in his eyes. She squeezes his arm. “Am I to gather that you’re not back in the country, yet, sir?”

Grateful for her astute handling of his uncharacteristic behavior, he nods as he brings out his handkerchief and dabs his eyes. “Bit of dust,” he says.

“And if the inspector calls?” Her voice is officious, all professional coolness, and his heart clenches with gratitude. 

“Let Greg - “ he stills, suspecting he’s shown his hand. “Let the inspector know that I will be in contact.” His voice is crisp, but the look on Anthea’s face tells him she isn’t fooled. 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. And, I like the beard.” She smiles and ducks out the door with Irina to head back to the park. 

* * *

He’s in the well again. Great walls of granite rise around him and the icy water is ankle-high and colors of steel grey, lamp black and ultramarine blue. 

The water rises, and no one is there to hear his screams. He tries to scale the wall and his fingernails split and bleed. _Quinacridone red._ The water’s getting hot and the stones begin melting like a surrealist painting. 

He’s no longer standing in water. Blue flames turn cadmium orange and yellow and he’s standing in the middle of a bonfire with his mouth wrenched open in a noiseless scream. His lungs collapse inward, and somewhere, Sherlock is six and crying and a little girl sings a French nursery rhyme. Shadows leap along the wall, and the face of Eurus moves from umbra to penumbra like a frightful moon, jealous of the sunshine that is her brother. 

Mycroft can’t save him or her. He can’t save anyone, including himself.

“Mr. Holmes?” Irina stands over him, the lamplight illuminating her face, gentle in its soft, yellow glow. “You’re dreaming.”

He’s covered in sweat and the blankets are twisted about his lanky body. He pants, looks around the room, and back at her face. Swallows. “Apologies, Irina. It has to do with my recent...work.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” she says in an even tone. “May I bring you something? A glass of water, perhaps?”

“No. Please,” he clutches his bedsheets, wishes she hadn’t seen him like this. “Please, go back to bed.”

“Of course, sir. Shall I turn out the light?”

“If you would, please.”

The lamp _clicks_. Her face disappears in the darkness. Her outline is lit from the moonlight streaming through the window, and Mycroft watches her slender figure leave his room, the door closing behind her. 

He stares at the pattern of window panes illuminated on the floor. Remembers the time, in Canada, when Greg joined him in bed when he’d woken from a nightmare. 

There is no going back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to highlight some other post-Sherrinford and Artist Mycroft stories as well. My first recommendation, if you haven’t read it, is this wonderful oneshot by Mice called [Taking Care.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383744)


	2. Finger Paints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft emerges from his Kensington flat and makes his reappearance at work. There are conversations to be had as he tries to determine who he can trust. Meanwhile, he grapples with personal demons, and one very significant phone call.

> “Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.”
> 
> Terry Prachett, _Reaper Man_

  


His phone rings in his pocket. He pulls it out to see _Mummy_ on the screen.

“Hello Mummy,” Mycroft answers. He stands inside the room that is to be his studio.

“Mikey, how’s Sherlock?”

His stomach curdles. “Might you try to call him yourself? I assure you he is actually quite capable of answering a phone.”

“Oh, Mikey, don’t be difficult. You know Sherlock has his hands full with his detective business.” Her voice swells with pride. 

“Yes, of course, how remiss of me.” He stares at the boxes before him. The studio walls are bare and the light from the windows bathe the room in winter gloom, all pale whites and greys. He wears a wool scarf to protect against the chill. 

Mummy sighs. “No need to be nasty, Mycroft. I care about my children. All of them.” 

Mycroft draws in a breath and ignores the barb. “I’m quite busy myself, Mummy. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“You mean you haven’t visited him?” Mummy clucks her tongue. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Really, when you’re old and grey like I am, your siblings, if you still have them, will be a comfort to you.” Mycroft almost guffaws at the idea of _Eurus_ being a comfort to anyone. “Keeping up relations with them will become a source of richness in your dotage.”

“Yes, of course, Mummy,” he says even as his stomach churns with the thought of being old and relying on his siblings for his life’s enrichment. The benefit to being older is that he’s more likely to die before any of them, despite Sherlock’s recklessness with his life. “I really must go now. Give Father my love.”

She sighs, unhappy. “Yes, Mikey.”

He hangs up before she can say another word. There’s a tiny sense of vindictive elation at having done so. Followed by guilt. 

_Mummy means well_ , and he sighs at this. After all, he’s made his bed. 

“Can I help you, sir?” Irina stands in the doorway of his studio.

The boxes of his paintings from Canada line the wall opposite the windows. Otherwise, the room holds only a purchased studio table, an easel, and a chair. His paints and pastels are among the boxes, along with brushes and varnishes and palette knives. There are built-in shelves along the far end of the room. 

_Anthea would have helped you unpack._ His guilt grows. _No. I can’t...I can’t let her be near me too much yet. She’ll notice…_

_What, exactly?_

The windows in this room are large and north facing. It’s chillier than the rest of the house, but it won’t matter to him when he’s working. 

He’s aware Irina still stands in the doorway, a slight smile on her pearlescent pale face. 

“Thank you, Irina. I’m - at a loss as to where to start.” _This. This is what you can’t let Anthea see._

“Well, let’s open a box and see, shall we?” She steps into the room, her smile widening. _Irina likes to feel useful_ , he realizes. She wants to be needed. Like most people, but she in particular has an acute desire for it.

“You are most gracious.” He smiles at her. “I am thankful to you and Henri for coming to work for me here in London.”

“Henri remembers you, you know, Mr. Holmes.” Irina avoids looking at him as she rips open a box, revealing an assortment of bubble-wrapped canvases. Her voice is quiet, careful.

Mycroft stills, waits to see if she’ll say more.

“He was young, but your actions not only saved Mr. Bernard, but his father as well.” She glances at him, her blue eyes soft around the edges. “Mr. Denault passed away three years ago, but Henri has never forgotten what you did for him.” 

_\- gunshots. a hot pain erupts from his thigh. he staggers. Armand is on the ground. Guillaume is shouting and in the cacophony of sound a child is crying -_

“When Mr. Bernard asked him if we would come, he knew Henri would say yes. After asking me, of course.” Her eyes shimmer, and she reaches into the box and holds up one of the canvases. “Where to, Mr. Holmes?”

“Let’s slide them onto the shelves for now.” Mycroft reaches into the box and grabs a couple canvasses himself, shoving the memories from his mind. 

* * *

He enters the office to see Lady Smallwood sitting behind her desk. Her office is full of books in mahogany bookcases set between windows with ruffled, ecru curtains. The light is bright from the windows despite the sheers. The scent of potpourri hangs in the air. Her eyes sweep up to meet his, and a smile spreads across her heavily made up face. Scarlet lipstick and dark mascara, an ivory-beige foundation lightening what are no doubt shadows like bruises beneath her eyes. The moment he entered the building, she would have been notified. 

“Elizabeth,” he says. He didn’t go to his office, preferring to get this over with. 

Two decades of devotion to England prop up their close acquaintance. Where once their connection was bridged, there now seems a vast distance between their respective positions, as if they wave to one another from signal towers. Mycroft isn’t sure if it’s ruins between them, or lush, green fields. Maybe it’s just barren land, struggling to produce. 

She stands from her desk and walks around it to shake his hand. “Mycroft, good to see you. You’ve given us all a scare.” She runs one finger along his beard, an intimate gesture that sets his teeth on edge. “Ready to dive in? We’ll set up an appointment with Doctor Hammond, first, of course.”

“Of course,” he says, holding to his smiling veneer as his fingers in his pockets curl.

She turns to face him. “Something bothering you?” Her voice is sweet, too sweet. _She wants something._

“Nothing at all, merely eager to continue,” he replies.

Her smile grows wide. “I am ever so happy to hear it.” She sits at her desk. “Now, you must tell me about your travels. Canada is quite beautiful. Did you go anywhere else?”

_She’s trying to find out where I’ve been once I slipped her surveillance._

“Nowhere of great note, I’m afraid.” He sticks to standing, though she clearly expects him to sit in the chair across from her. He walks to the window, and looks out onto the terrace below. No greenery in the pots yet. It’s only February. A fog curls around the edges of the low stone walls. “Are we to pass simple pleasantries? You know I loathe that sort of talk.”

Elizabeth waves a dismissive hand. “Are we not friends? Or the closest thing to friends that people such as we have?”

Mycroft thinks of gleaming umber-brown eyes, warm skin, a man’s stubble against his cheek. He propels it from his mind.

“Then you know we don’t do this,” he says in his lofty way as he turns from the window to face her.

There is a tightness in her expression, the micromovements of muscle giving away her apprehension. _She doesn’t want anything. She’s hiding something._ “Well, you haven’t changed a bit. I’m sure you’ll pass the psych eval with flying colors.”

Mycroft’s vision clouds as a flash of anger runs hot through his body. _To think a simple evaluation by some quack would determine my worth to England._

_But that’s all it’s ever been. My worth to my mother. My worth to my country. My worth to others. My care for others._ “I’m not too hung up on the evaluation. I am here to pack up my office.”

Her face twitches, eyes narrowing and mouth slacking, and then she schools her expression into one of curiosity. But not before Mycroft sees what he expected - triumph. 

“You’re...leaving the service?”

“No. Merely, giving my office to Anthea, and relocating.”

“Your PA?” Her voice is piercing.

“We both know she was never simply my PA.” He smiles at her. “And we both know she isn’t a Norbury.”

Lady Smallwood's complexion pales. Her mouth thins into a determined line and she stands. “It won’t do to make a statement at this time, Mycroft. I’ll be happy to set your appointment up with Doctor Hammond.”

“The appointment is already made.” He hums, and walks to the door. “It's good to be back in London, Elizabeth.”

“Mycroft,” Lady Smallwood calls after him, and he pauses in the doorway. “I’m not your enemy. Please, keep it in mind. England can’t lose you.”

 _She’s worried._ Perhaps it wasn’t triumph he’d read on her face. 

“Undoubtedly.” He gives her another smile, and walks out the door.

* * *

Mycroft’s position hangs in a delicate balance, not quite fitting inside the hierarchy of government while commanding certain departments and avoiding subordinance to others. The prime ministers had been told he was a consultant. Type not specified. The PM didn’t always do as he recommended, but they would later learn that it paid to heed the advice of Mycroft Holmes. They also learned that Mycroft would never come at their beck and call. 

In order to continue his position now, the position he'd created and was considered essential to the Civil Service, he was subject to a psychiatric evaluation. It might benefit some of his enemies for him to be taken off the board, but Mycroft is determined to exit on his terms.

He enters his office, not bothering with the lights as the skylights provide enough illumination. The daylight bounces around the room and off the shiny objects on his desk. A glass globe of the earth. A set of spectacles. A steel fan. The fancy pen that was a gift from Lady Smallwood. In one corner is the stark, metal filing cabinet locked with important documents. In the other corner, a case of books. A painting hangs between them, an original by Pietro Annigoni of Queen Elizabeth II, pensive and discerning in her gaze. 

Before Sherrinford, his anger moved like a smooth river lying beneath his actions. It stayed contained within the riverbanks, obedient to the dams and levees he used to direct it. 

Not today. Today, it’s become a relentless surf of murky water, a roiling of hydrothermal vents, ghouls coming up from watery graves, ugly and terrifying.

Before he knows it, he grasps the pen and throws it across the room to the wall by the door. His ears fill with the soft _clatter_ against the wall and the floor. 

It’s not enough. 

Next is the fan, yanked from the outlet. It _clashes_ against the same wall and lands on the carpet with a loud _thud_. He grabs the glass globe. Holds it between his hands. Feels the cold against his palms. With a breath he launches it through the air and watches the _smash_ and _shatter_ of glass against wood, shards raining to the ground as the continents and the seas burst into irreparable disarray. 

He pants as his heart hammers and ears ring with the sound of crystalline breaking. He sits on the edge of his desk, hands gripping the lip, his back turned to the Queen’s portrait. 

* * *

The sunshine from the skylights has moved from the wall to over the desk where Mycroft leans. When Anthea walks in, she glances at the objects and glass shards on the ground, and strides past, her heels soft on the carpet. She sets up a laptop at his desk and begins taking items out of a cardboard box. As she places things on the desk - a box of pens, tissues, highlighters, a small plant - she says, “I did some investigating.” 

Mycroft still leans on the desk, face turned over his shoulder, watching her from the corner of his eye. She removes her blazer and reveals a soft, fuzzy sweater in a shade of burgundy. “Of?”

“Your security team.”

Mycroft meets her eyes as he tries to determine whether or not she has disobeyed him.

“I read some interesting history on a Guillaume Bernard, but nothing that told me why he would lend you an entire team of highly qualified security personnel. The reports I found seemed to indicate he was a civilian involved in preventing a terrorist cell from taking hold in Marseille.” She places down a cup of folder clips. “An operation you worked on, as well.”

“Indeed.” His voice is frosty.

She draws herself up to face him. “Why do you trust him?”

“Who are you to question my judgment?”

“Someone who cares,” she shoots back, though her tone is soft. “It used to be that you trusted me with your security needs.”

Mycroft frowns. _Perhaps I have been a little unfair._

_But can I trust her? What if Eurus..._

He takes out his cigarettes.

Anthea watches him with a questioning look, but says nothing. He can still recall her first day on the job. Her efficient, brisk manner and her dutiful responses, her clever insights to little problems that he could share with her. Anthea, who gives him his tea the way he likes it and ensures his comfort before and after every meeting, and is solicitous of his needs at every avenue. Who reports on Sherlock without fail, who’d shown him compassion without pity in the aftermath of Sherrinford. Who spoke out against the meeting of two psychopaths despite her inferior position. 

He lights the cigarette, inhales, exhales, and watches the smoke furl in the air. It reminds him of another time, standing on a deck in the cold, and watching the wisps of smoke make shapes in the porchlight. 

He reaches further back in his memory. “The first time I met Guillaume Bernard, it was for that operation of which you speak. A terrorist group trying to gain a foothold in Marseille had begun using the Bernard family’s import and export business to smuggle arms. Once we’d cleared the Bernard family of any wrongdoing, we were working to find out who inside their company was aiding the group.” 

“That much I read,” she says.

“Guillaume and I didn’t get along for a while. He thought our process too slow, too cautious, while his family’s business, and his family, were in trouble.” Mycroft smiles, remembering the glorious fights he and Guillaume had. Gui was a marvel, with hard muscle and thick black hair and straight white teeth and dangerous, flint-dark eyes. “The operation proved successful, and Gui was very grateful, despite our personal antagonisms.

“I was back in London, gathering intelligence, deducing the movements of security issues in England and on the continent when I received a letter from Guillaume. It was an invitation to his family home.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than a friendly gesture. I knew better.

“He wasn’t pleased to see me, despite the invitation. He told me he had suspicions that some of his staff and board members were working against him. It sounded a bit paranoid. It didn’t take long, though, to deduce who among his business staff were moving against him. It seems there had been a long held desire by certain members to force the company to go public.” He taps his ash into the soil of the potted plant. “The Bernards planned a large party to celebrate a hundred years in the business of shipping. I prevented an explosion that would have killed the family.”

“And this never went into a report?”

“Never. It was my vacation. The matter was dealt with...privately. Police weren’t involved.”

The expression on Anthea’s face seems calculating.

“It wasn’t over at that point. The Bernards decided to retreat to a safehouse. Armand Denault was the head of security at that time. I, Guillaume, his wife Giselle, and their five year old daughter Adele headed for the safehouse to stay there until everyone involved was dealt with. When we arrived, we were surprised by would-be assassins. Armand was almost killed. I pushed him out of the way, and then I killed two men.” 

_\- two gunshots. the ringing in his ears. the smell of gunpowder and sweat. Guillaume’s dark head and flashing eyes. screaming. a child crying. -_

Mycroft blows out a cloud of smoke. “But not before I was shot.” _It aches on rainy days._

Anthea’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Sir?”

“The medical report says I was mugged and stabbed in the thigh while exploring some tiny town outside of Paris. Armand used a knife to dig out the bullet, and then he sewed me up. We bought off a local doctor to sign some papers. It was all too easy.”

Mycroft snuffs his cigarette in the soil. “Guillaume hates to owe a debt. I have loan of some of his best people for saving his family’s life.”

“Denault.” Anthea says. “Henri and Irina Denault.”

Mycroft nods. “Henri is Armand’s son. He was there that day, but he left with Guillaume’s household staff. Quite safe.”

Anthea bobs her head. “Alright, then." She places her hands on her hips. "And sir?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll ask you not to put your cigarettes out on my plants. Also, that’s your last one in my office.” Her look at him brooks no argument. Mycroft shrugs, then smiles.

* * *

On February 14, Mycroft doesn’t call Greg. 

On February 20, Mycroft sits in his leather chair by the fireplace, thin fingers around a glass of whisky. He’d gone to the Diogenes Club for the first time in months, and found himself craving the soft chatter and loud antics of his household. Henri drove him home. Irina informed them upon arriving that Max and Jean were out to dinner. Henri and Irina enjoyed a meal with Mycroft, and then retreated to their room. 

Mycroft has had weeks to observe the casual ease with which both couples show their love and affection to one another. It makes his skin crawl and warms his chest in the same breath. 

He wants to hear the abrupt, belly-deep laughter of Greg. He wants warm, masculine arms around him, and the spicy smell of cologne and aftershave to overcome his good sense. He wants kisses.

He can’t afford to want this. 

Mycroft takes a sip of the whisky, observing the colors change from nickel azo gold to diarylide yellow as the liquid catches the firelight.

_It’s not what you think it is. You’ve built this up to be something more than it is. You’ll call him because you did say you would, and that’ll be that. Likely he’ll have moved on and forgotten all about your time together._

_It’s just a friendly chat. And I am Mycroft Holmes._

He picks up his phone, and dials Greg’s number. 

There’s a bit of scuffling noise when the line connects, and then it’s Greg. 

“Hey! You back in London?” Greg’s voice is bright. Happy. It makes Mycroft feel like a fumbling, giddy youth. 

“Yes.” Mycroft summons his own smile. “Apologies for the late hour.”

“Nah, don’t mind that! How’s everything going?” He can hear the _ding_ of a microwave in the background.

“Oh, everything is...as it should be. I am - making adjustments.” Mycroft clears his throat. “Am I interrupting anything of importance?”

“No, it’s alright.” Greg’s voice is low, rough with concern. “Hey, you don’t sound good. D'you need to talk?”

Mycroft clutches the phone, his heart clenching as his defenses crumble. “I don’t wish to burden you.”

“It’s no burden. This is what...people who care for each other do.”

“I can barely carry my own burdens, Greg.” Mycroft snaps his mouth shut, his nerves careening through his body with...fear? 

“I don’t need you to carry mine right now. I’m doing just fine. So, right now, I'll help you with yours. Maybe someday, you’ll help me with mine. It doesn’t have to be an exact exchange. Just knowing that you’d be there for me if you could is enough.”

 _I don't know what to say_. This was not how this phone call was supposed to go. 

“Still there?”

“Yes.” Mycroft breathes in, holds it, and then out. “I am - not entirely myself, as you know.” His gut contorts and his face is hot with shame. “It may take some time to gather myself together once again.” _Shaping the negative, and the form is revealed._ “In some ways, I feel like clay.”

“Being molded anew?”

“Perhaps, or bits being carved away.”

“I get it,” Greg says quietly. “I’ve had times in my life where I felt like that.”

“What did you do?” Mycroft’s voice is a whisper.

“All things pass, right?” Greg says. “This will pass, too, and you might be a new man by the end of it, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

 _Stronger._ Mycroft, white-knuckled, tries to feel it. To feel stronger.

“I need strength. I’m - I’m falling to pieces.”

“I’ll help you - “

“No! No.” He finds himself pressing the phone to his ear with two hands. “I - I need to do this on my own. I don’t wish to…” He doesn’t know what to say. _He can’t see you at your weakest_. God, to fall apart in front of Greg Lestrade. _Again._

“If you just need to know that someone's in your corner, I want you to know that I am.” There’s a pause before Greg goes on. “If you need to do this on your own, I’ll wait.”

“You’ll - wait?” Mycroft can’t conceive of it.

“Yes. I’ll wait.”

“H-how long?” _Ridiculous_.

“As long as it takes.”

“That’s - that’s ridiculous! I am a ridiculous man, and my life is...a veritable quagmire!”

“I’ll wait,” Greg says. “I know you don’t make decisions lightly, Mycroft. Do you...d’you want to be in a relationship with me?”

Mycroft licks his lips. “Yes,” he breathes. _No. God, what are you doing?_

“And I know you’re not ready yet. And that’s okay. I know you’re worth it.”

His eyes sting. He covers them with one hand. The other grips the phone so tightly his knuckles ache. 

“Mycroft?”

He swallows. “Greg.” His lungs inflate with air, and deflate with the out-breath. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And hey, if you want, I wouldn’t be opposed to a coffee now and then, between two friends. Doesn’t have to be more until you want it.”

Mycroft takes another breath. “Yes. I’d like that.” _Yes. Yes. God help me._

“Good.” Mycroft can hear the smile in Greg’s voice. “And please know you can call me should you ever need to talk. I don’t have your brain, but I do have ears.”

Mycroft smiles. His heart flips with a sweet sort of sadness he’s not sure he’s ever felt. “Yes, Greg. I will. You are - too kind.”

“It’s not kindness. It’s just bein’ decent. Besides, how else am I going to win you over? I’ve only got my charms left.”

Mycroft snorts. “Only your charms? I do believe you’re the Met’s most desirable silver fox. I’m surprised they haven’t made a calendar.”

“Oi, that’s enough flattery from you!” Greg laughs, and Mycroft surprises himself with the laughter that erupts from his own throat. _Is it possible this is the best I’ve felt all week?_

“It’s good to hear you,” Greg whispers.

“I am delighted to hear your voice, too,” Mycroft says. “I - wish to leave you with your microwaved meal in peace. I shall call you again, soon.”

“Don’t forget about that coffee.”

“I won’t. Goodnight, Greg. Thank you, again.”

“No need to thank me. You get some sleep.”

Mycroft’s breath catches. “You as well.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” As Mycroft hangs up, a chilling sense of dread settles in his gut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter's recommendation, a bit of Artist Mycroft with the lovely [Stone Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190190) by Hastalux.


	3. Lead Shavings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft faces a series of confrontations.

> "The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind."
> 
> -William Blake 

“I’ve come to a conclusion.” Doctor Hammond is a tall man with van dyke brown hair and wide shoulders. He’s bulky around the middle, and his eyes are hazel, flecks of viridian among shades of toffee. He wears a bespoke jacket over a kelly green cashmere jumper and charcoal grey chinos. “Would you like to hear it?” 

“I suppose I must,” Mycroft says, his nose upturned, his eyes dancing around the edges of the room. The shelves are lined with books of all genres - psychology, of course, but also science fiction and true crime and a copy of _Twilight_. Mycroft’s elbow is on the armrest of a wingback chair, and his chin in his hand. The fabric is soft and the color is pale like the inside of an almond. 

“You’ve passed with flying colors, on both the written, and the oral.” Doctor Hammond says in jest, and grins at him with whitened teeth. He’s sitting in a similar wingback facing Mycroft, and he holds Mycroft's file in his hand. The office is well-lit and airy, with a copy of Cezanne's _Chateau Noir_ hanging on the wall. 

Mycroft meets the man’s gaze with a bored stare. He hates the man’s face. The jowls are insulting to look have to look upon. The man’s mouth moves again. “But, you know what I think?”

“Please, enlighten me,” Mycroft drawls. 

Doctor Hammond leans forward, file still in hand. His smile fades. 

“You’re a liar.” 

Mycroft snaps his spine straight. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can get as indignant as you like, but you and I know the truth. You’ve told me everything I _want_ to hear.” Doctor Hammond shrugs as he leans back. “And you’re good. But not good enough. So, I can go ahead and clear you. I’ll have to, of course. They’re keen to have you back, and I don’t have anything to justify my prognosis but my suspicion. And you’ll do well enough, for a while, at least. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Do your best to appear as innocuous as that umbrella to the public, but there’s gunpowder underneath, hm?”

Mycroft smooths wrinkles down his jacket, and folds his hands in his lap. “You would be mistaken, Doctor.” His heart beats a staccato rhythm as his rib cage squeezes. “I’m really very boring. Just ask my brother.”

Doctor Hammond smirks. “The detective? Yes, I’d have a field day with him. D’you read Doctor Watson’s blog? There’s a lot not being said.”

Mycroft smiles, though he’d rather skewer the shrink’s face with his umbrella. “Indeed.”

Doctor Hammond lays the file down on the table next to his chair, and fiddles with his pen. “Listen, here’s what I’ll say. I’m going to clear you for duty. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but something is. I know you won’t speak with me about it at this juncture. Do what you can to take care of yourself. My door's always open. I don’t want to regret this.”

“Please, I’m a glorified paper pusher.” Mycroft stands, hooks his umbrella over his arm. “The worst that can happen is I slice myself with a paper cut.”

Doctor Hammond laughs. “You’re good,” he says, pointing at Mycroft and winking like Mycroft has let him in on a secret.

Mycroft leaves the room without saying goodbye. It irks him to be impolite, but he does it just the same. 

* * *

Max and Jean join them for a meal of beef bourguignon, bantering about footie teams and popular television shows Mycroft hasn’t seen. He leaves them to their conversation while he observes them. They’ve had many dinners together. He's surprised to find he loves to watch Max and Jean-Michel in action. The men are so obviously fond of each other it makes him feel a quiet ache in his heart. 

After dessert, the two leave for their place next door, bumping shoulders and gazing at each other with hooded eyes. Irina also watches them go. She catches Mycroft’s eye and winks. 

Mycroft pours himself a bit of whisky, and offers some to Henri and Irina. Irina declines, deciding to go to bed with a book. Henri accepts.

They sit across from each other in the chairs by the fireplace. Mycroft settles in, glass in hand, and watches the tiny flames leap about behind the grate. Musgrave Hall dangles in the back of his mind, but he ignores it, and focuses on the man sitting before him.

“Your father was Armand Denault,” Mycroft says. “I remember that he was a good man. I am sorry to hear of his passing.”

Henri inclines his head. “Pancreatic cancer. It was quick, but he lived well.” The man has graceful movements like a cat. Henri must have been seventeen when Mycroft saw him last. He’s thirty-two now, with slight crinkles around his eyes, but his body has not lost the youthful poise. 

“He was surrounded by friends and family when he slept for the last time.” Henri’s adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. 

“How so many wish they might go,” Mycroft says, and surprises himself with the wistful tone of his voice.

“Mr. Bernard said much the same.” Henri’s smile is pained. “He acts as if he is no fan of yours, Mr. Holmes, but I can tell he admires you greatly.”

Mycroft smiles. “I admire him in much the same way.” Guillaume Bernard. _Oh, the disagreements. The loud arguments._ Guillaume despised Mycroft’s cautious and calculating approach. Mycroft favored the black hair on Gui’s head - a shade of bistre - and everywhere else. 

Mycroft shifted his seat as he remembered Guillaume’s rapid, angry French, and that night, that one night where he thought Gui would hit him, and instead kissed him. They’d ended up in a heated tangle on the bedsheets, three nights of passionate love-making and fucking. Then Mycroft’s mission finished. He returned to London, and Guillaume returned to his wife. 

_Giselle._ “And how do his children fare?”

Henri smiles. “You do not ask Mr. Bernard yourself?”

“We hadn’t spoken for some years before I called him this past January.”

Henri nods. “Adele is at university, studying business. She is a force. Mr. Bernard will leave the company to her.” He crosses his legs. “Lucas is an aspiring artist, quite talented And Timothée is a footie player. Wishes to go pro, but then, he is all but thirteen years old.”

“I’m sure Gui is very proud to have such a functioning family,” Mycroft muses. Then he wonders if Henri caught the familiarity of a sobriquet Mycroft hadn’t meant to use out loud.

“He would not have had them now if it weren’t for you, Mr. Holmes,” Henri says. “Nor would I have had another twelve years with my father.”

Mycroft looks away from Henri and back to the flames of the fireplace. “It seems I have been able to do some good in this world.”

“I have the feeling you do more than most,” Henri replies. 

Mycroft doesn’t deny it, though he knows it isn’t true.

* * *

It’s the end of February, and the overcast sky is threatening either rain or snow. 

“Sir,” Anthea looks around his home office. It was a last minute decision to have the other guest room fitted with a desk and chair, paintings from his time in Canada, a small table and chair for when Anthea came over, and some shelves. “It’s been wonderful to have you back.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says without really agreeing. “Let’s begin by looking through these files for your personal assistant.”

“Yes, sir.” 

His phone buzzes. _Mummy_ on the ID. He shuts it off and turns his attention to the folders she’s handed him. A sense of guilt tugs at the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. “What’s this folder here?” He holds up a blue file folder.

“Surveillance reports, sir. On your brother and other parties.”

Mycroft lays the folder before him and flips through its pages. “The color’s changed.” His surveillance reports usually come in grey. 

Anthea looks down at her lap. “A mistake, sir. Won’t happen again.”

“It doesn’t matter. This now fits under your purview.” He sighs as he thinks of the little black notebook he’s been carrying with him for years. _Sherlock’s lists._ One after another, placed with precision inside that notebook. Mummy’s phone call, just now, very likely to inquire whether or not he’s seen Sherlock yet. A flash of anger echoes through his chest and he refocuses on his task.

“I’m - I’m no longer - “ He pauses flipping as he notices, in the photograph before him, a figure standing outside Baker Street. A silhouette he is sure he knows. 

“Is this Sir Edwin?” Mycroft asks. 

Anthea peers at the photo. “He visited your brother before Christmas. I don’t believe he got whatever he was looking for.” She flips the page over, and there, there is Sir Edwin leaving Baker Street, his face looking cross as he adjusts his scarf. 

“You never told me of this visit.”

“I’m telling you now,” she replies, her eyes catching Mycroft’s.

The next few pages are regarding his sister. Eurus is still uncommunicative. She’s eating. Sherlock visits her every two weeks, and together they play violin. A priest made a visit. 

_A priest made a visit._

“Anthea,” he breathes. “What is the meaning of this?”

Anthea looks. “The priest visited all the inmates over a course of three days, sir. He goes there monthly.”

“Who does?” His voice darkens.

She flips the paper over, and there is the information on a Father Paul Flaherty. Age fifty-five, Causcasian, six feet in height, blue eyes. 

“When has Eurus _ever_ had a visit from a priest, Anthea?”

“You signed off on it, sir,” Anthea’s voice is tremulous as she points out his signature. And it is his signature. Of course, someone has copied it, but nonetheless, it appears he approved a visit from a Catholic priest. The date beside it is from the last week in November, right before he left for his sabbatical in Canada. 

“I’ve never seen this document in my life,” Mycroft seethes, the office shrinking in size as his eyes bore into Anthea’s. “And if you had used your head for _one moment_ you would know I would never have allowed _anyone_ to see Eurus at all if I could help it!” 

Anthea’s cheeks flush, and the corners of her mouth curve downward. 

Mycroft rises from his chair. “Let me see the notes from the day of this man’s visit.”

The photos show Father Paul Flaherty is Sir Edwin. _It’s worse than I imagined._ “Did you even glance at these photos from his visit?” He shakes the pile of surveillance photos at Anthea. “Do you see who’s wearing the priest’s collar?”

“It’s Sir Edwin,” she says. Her eyes avoid his.

“Yes! After a sudden visit with my brother - an unprecedented event, as you well know, a document appears with my name on it, backdated for November, to allow a Catholic priest to visit the psychopath! And these photos quite clearly show that it is none other than the head of MI6 himself!” He throws the papers to the ground, some flitting in the air like dead leaves before skittering across the floor. “How can I place you in charge of so delicate and paramount a project when you have _already_ failed me just barely out the door!? You must pay attention! You must see the connections! I chose you above all others, and this carelessness, this _stupidity_ \- ”

Anthea straightens at this. She looks him in the eye. “You are correct in that I have made a mistake, sir. Belittling me won’t change what’s happened.”

“Eurus cannot be allowed to speak to members of government, or to anyone for that matter!” Mycroft shouts his arms flinging into the air. “And you think you can slip by without a reprimand?”

“It’s what they’ve done for you, haven’t they?” 

Mycroft freezes. “I was placed on administrative leave, and then I had to pass a psychiatric evaluation to come back.” His voice crackles like melting ice.

“You were slipping before the events at Sherrinford, Mr. Holmes. What they gave you was an extended vacation to get your shit together. They know England can’t afford to lose you.” Anthea stands. “I screwed up. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. But I won’t stand for verbal abuse. Write me up, but don’t call me stupid.”

She stalks out of the room.

Mycroft is standing, and stares at the scattering of papers on the floor. Deflated, he picks them up and puts them back in order. His gut churns with some feeling he can’t identify.

Outside, it starts to sleet. 

* * *

Three days later, Mycroft puts a plan into action with Anthea’s help. It doesn’t take long for him to reach Vauxhall Cross. He heads for the offices of SIS, and pays no mind to the front desk person calling after him, flashing his badge at the security officers who advance in order to stop him, striding down the hallway with a slow boiling fury frothing inside him. 

Anthea is on a speaker in his ear, relaying to him the whereabouts of Sir Edwin as the man moves in the building. Mycroft meets him halfway up the back stairwell. Footsteps echo through the drab stairwell, metal railings drilled into cinder blocks and concrete mixes, shades of slate grey, gunmetal, and ash. 

Edwin comes around a landing, another man at his back, both heading downstairs. 

“Sir Edwin, what a surprise,” Mycroft leans slightly on his umbrella, ignoring the throb in his thigh from his quick movements up the staircase. “I’m happy to have run into you.” 

“Mycroft! Good to see you’re back. How can I be of service?” Sir Edwin’s brow shines with his effort, and his cerulean eyes narrow. He has the high ground if this becomes a physical fight, but neither man is in their prime. Mycroft can hear the heavy footsteps of Max behind him. Sir Edwin’s face furrows when Max reaches the landing and draws up to his full six feet four inches behind Mycroft. The impressive part of him though is his mass, built like an American football player. 

“This one yours?” Sir Edwin looks at Max with interest. “I have to admit he’s not quite as pretty as the last one.”

“I’ve promoted Anthea,” Mycroft replies.

“Yes, Lady Smallwood mentioned that, at the time she told me of your appointment with Doctor Hammond.”

Mycroft’s mouth tightens. “You’ve been taking advantage of my absence.”

“Pardon?” The man’s face is partly blank, but his eyes harden. 

“Someone forged my signature on a document allowing a visitor to my sister.”

“Oh? When was this?” _Feigned concern. He had a bagel for breakfast and his ancient cat is still alive. Wife isn't speaking to him._

“Last week of November.”

“Oh, Mycroft. You were so distraught at the time. Are you certain?” His voice slithers with insincerity. 

“This visitor was caught on camera.”

Sir Edwin’s eyes widen at that. “The security footage at Sherrinford?”

“No. Strangely enough, the footage at the time was damaged when a Father Flaherty visited the prison. It was the footage from my sister’s cell that interested me.”

“From your sister’s cell?” Sir Edwin’s mouth screwed into a scowl. “Unauthorized filming of an inmate?”

“Perfectly legal. It’s the setup from Eurus herself.” Mycroft smiles. “It was never dismantled.”

Sir Edwin held Mycroft’s stare, and Mycroft read the discomfort there. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

Mycroft stalks forward. The lackey behind Sir Edwin, a slender youth with a mousy brown crew cut and a spidery frame, starts to take a step forward. The shift of muscle mass behind Mycroft seems to cause the young man to rethink his tactics.

Mycroft stands on a stair below Sir Edwin. Sir Edwin leans back slightly as Mycroft invades his space. “Listen to me, Edwin. _No one_ will visit her except family. No one will use her as a tool, because if you do, she will turn on you. She will turn on England. And whoever thought to wield her as a weapon, will find the weapon pointed at themselves.” He can smell expensive cologne and cinnamon breath on Sir Edwin. “Don’t be a fool, Edwin. She’ll shred you to ribbons and feed you to gulls, just to amuse herself.”

He takes backward steps down the stairs - one, two, three. 

Sir Edwin brims with indignity. “If we lose - “

“She does not belong to England, Edwin.” Mycroft holds onto the railing and his umbrella to affect a look of nonchalance, though in reality he's trying to remove weight from his leg which trembles and aches. “She is a person, though without humanity she may be. I hope I have made myself clear in regards to the British government and its relationship with Eurus. She is its prisoner; not its Delphic Oracle. If I see any other unauthorized attempts to access to her, I will take action.”

“You’ve made yourself clear, Mycroft.” Sir Edwin seethes through clenched teeth. “I do hope the British government won’t lose its other Holmes.”

Mycroft pauses. “A threat?”

Sir Edwin grins, oily and predatory. “Merely my deepest wish, Mycroft. Now, is our tete-a-tete at an end?”

Mycroft moves to stand against the wall. Max follows suit. Mycroft gestures down the stairwell with his hand. “It was good to see you, Sir Edwin. I shan’t keep you a moment longer.”

Sir Edwin draws himself up, and walks down the stairs, giving Mycroft a perfunctory nod and Max a wary glance before heading down the next set of stairs. His lackey follows close behind, not looking at either of them, his tan suit slightly too long on him and piled about the ankles. _No pets, gay, lives alone._

As the steps echo down the stairwell, Max looks at Mycroft. Mycroft leans against the wall, balancing his weight on one foot. His heart races, and his skin might vibrate off of him at any moment. The sounds below them stop after a door is opened and shut. After a moment, Max murmurs in his soft German accent, “I honestly thought you were on your way to murder someone.”

Mycroft angles his head toward his bodyguard, glad for the distraction as his body reacts in ways he’s not felt before. “And it took you so long to catch up to me because?”

“Well, if I don’t see it, plausible deniability.” Max winks.

Mycroft laughs, and the tension slips from his muscles.

* * *

His wall is covered with scenes of the world outside the Canadian chalet. Snow-covered evergreens, sweeping vistas, sunrises and sunsets. Among them, several sketches of elk. And next to those, a portrait of Greg Lestrade. Beside it, a small painting of cigarette smoke against the darkness, twisting in the light. 

He’s been walking in and out of here, in and out, peering at the paintings, wondering what to do. He’s not under the delusion that they’d past muster with the local arts council, but you have to start somewhere, right?

He stares at the painting of Greg, until he realizes he’s touching it, tracing the lips, brushing his fingers over the textured paint. Then he sits at his studio table, sketching wide, brown eyes set over a short nose, thin lips, and a cleft chin. He draws wisps of silvery hair. 

It’s not a complete portrait; only the features Mycroft favors. He remembers an art professor once saying: the artist looks out onto a landscape, observes what is there, and selects what is essential. 

_Is that not the nature of all sentient things?_

The paintings of his Canadian landscape are hyperrealistic in nature. He painted what he observed. Now, he’s decided to paint what is essential. 

A smile of canescent teeth, and eyes like coffee. Argentite hair. An ebullient voice that fills the air. _What would that voice look like if I were to draw it?_

Mycroft smiles, soft and quiet, as he sharpens his pencil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allow me to direct you to a gorgeous, short Mystrade fic, [Gravity Well](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546390), by mydwynter.


	4. Rough Sketch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, determined to see through this crisis of character, does two very brave things. This leads to a troubled phone call.

> "I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses."
> 
> -Friedrich Nietzsche, _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_

“It’s good to see you, Mycroft.” Greg is dressed in charcoal trousers, a bit wrinkled at the inseam, but his shirt looks pressed and careful, a navy button-up with the sleeves rolled near the elbows. He stands from the table and chairs of the cafe, a gentle smile on his face and a shine to his eyes. _Like pools of raw umber._

“A pleasure to see you, Greg,” Mycroft answers. He’s dressed in a bespoke suit of herringbone in soft gray, a burgundy tie and white button down. He grips the umbrella handle tightly, knowing he’s overdressed. He stands, not knowing quite certain how to greet Greg, though every muscle in his body magnetizes toward the man.

“I like that you kept the beard,” Greg says as he stretches out his hand in greeting. Mycroft grasps it, reveling in the warmth of his somewhat callused skin, and the firmness of those thick fingers. “It looks good on you.” 

Mycroft releases the handshake and touches his furred chin. “I suppose it’s grown on me,” smirking as he says it.

Greg’s eyes twinkle at his lame joke, and he indicates the chair across from him as he sits. Mycroft hangs his umbrella on the back of the chair and lowers into the seat.

Max and Jean have ordered drinks, and settle nearby. Greg glances at them and back at Mycroft. “They with you?”

“Security.”

“I don’t recall seeing security doggin’ your every step before,” Greg says. “You didn’t have any in Canada, did you?”

“They are my private security, recently hired. There, I was - on my own, on purpose, you see. My time in Canada might be termed a ‘dark night of the soul,’ until your arrival there.” Mycroft’s cheeks color. 

“Why private security?” Greg’s face turns serious. “Are you in danger?”

“Merely a precaution.” Mycroft gives him what he hopes is a winning smile. Greg searches his face. Mycroft keeps his features relaxed. It doesn’t seem to convince Greg, because he leans back in his chair and looks over at Max and Jean. Max is looking out the window of the cafe, and Jean is looking to the door. Greg shifts his gaze to Mycroft. “Okay, I’ll buy that for now, s’pose. Do I get to meet them?”

Mycroft starts in surprise. Then he arches a brow. “I assure you that they have been thoroughly vetted, and are well up to the task of ensuring my personal safety.” He harrumphs. “It’s not as though you have access to my resources.” He cringes at his tone. _Yes, drive him away, why don’t you._

Greg doesn’t blink as he says, “That may be, but mostly, I just wanna make sure that they keep their hands off of you.” Then he winks and Mycroft can feel the heat on his cheeks again. 

He bows his head as he chuckles. “I assure you, they are far more interested in each other.”

Greg’s brows slide toward one another. “They’re together?”

“Indeed.” The server interrupts them, a blonde woman with hair pulled back in a ponytail, the undercut dyed cobalt blue. Mycroft orders a cappuccino. Greg, a coffee and a raspberry-lemon scone.

Once she leaves, Greg glances at his security again. “Is it safe to have your security team be personally involved? Might that skew their judgment if a situation comes up that endangers one of them?”

Mycroft shrugs a shoulder. “My old friend Guillaume assures me that they perform their duties with alacrity and diligence, and when incidents occur, their primary concern is the one they’re tasked with protecting. He says they work in sync better than his other teams.”

The server sets down their food and sends Greg a starry-eyed smile as she ignores Mycroft. Greg thanks her but sends his own dazzling grin to Mycroft. Mycroft wraps his long fingers around his cup, pleased. 

“And who’s Guillaume? Does he own a security company?”

“Nearly. I met him while working in France some years ago. He was an asset in bringing down a terrorist group. Unfortunately, I can say no more than that.” Mycroft looks into his cup, admiring the simplicity of the white foam. “Other than that his family has a very large business, and over time, has had multiple reasons to hire a small army.”

He takes a sip of his cappuccino, and licks his lips to soothe the burn of the hot liquid. “Max and Jean-Michel are one half of my team. The other two are husband and wife. Having watched them spar, I should not like to meet either of them in a dark alley.” He blows over the cup.

Greg holds his mug to his mouth and before sipping, says, “And when do I get to meet those two?” His eyes dance above the mug’s rim.

Mycroft can’t help but smile as his gaze shifts to out the window behind Max. A teenage girl is walking by wearing a bright yellow raincoat and green wellies, her red hair swinging behind her in a long braid. “Soon, I hope.” He meets Greg’s eyes. “I am - still making adjustments, as need be.” His stomach tumbles with nerves.

Greg’s eyes and smile soften. “Thank you. ‘N’ don’t let me rush you. I can’t help but flirt with you, but know that I can be patient.”

_Be brave._ Mycroft reaches across the table, his heart thumping as he takes Greg’s hand. “I am indebted to your consideration.”

“I look forward to collecting on that debt,” Greg grins, sparkling all the while. Mycroft knows the man is aware of his good looks, but does he realize the full extent? Mycroft’s stomach flips and his squeezes his thighs together to abate some of the physical sensation that has pooled there. 

Greg gives him a squeeze, and keeps his hand in Mycroft’s. “Have you seen Sherlock and John?”

“No.” _Verdigris eyes frantic and questioning. Prussian blue eyes surrounded by tired lines and filled with fear._ He still sometimes thinks he ought to have died that day, his own slate blue faded to nothing.

“No? They seem quite cozy now. I’m glad whatever bad blood there was between them seems at an end.” Greg looks at him over his coffee. “Hey, you alright?”

“Yes.” He leans back in his chair, telling his muscles to relax. “I am to visit Sherlock this week.”

“I still can’t believe John moved back, and that Sherlock likes Rosie so much. Never figured him for a family man.”

“Yes, he has surprised us all.” _Starved for affection, as all Holmes children are._ It’s no wonder Sherlock took to her like the proverbial duck takes to water. She gives grubby hugs and wet kisses with wild abandon once she trusts a person. _Touch._

Mycroft shakes himself free of these thoughts. It’s so unlike him, he hardly knows what to do with them.

“Mycroft?” Greg’s hand moves to cover his palm. His warm fingers close around the thin bones of Mycroft’s wrist. “You feel okay?”

“I’ve had many...intrusive thoughts,” Mycroft says, though he is apprehensive to share such a thing with Greg. _But who else can I trust?_ He grips his fingers into a fist, the other man’s hand warm and weighty on his wrist. “Don’t let it concern you. Let us enjoy our afternoon.”

Greg smiles, withdrawing his hand, but letting his fingertips run over Mycroft’s fist as he does. Mycroft misses the feel of his touch, but he hides his disappointment behind his cappuccino, and forces his hand to uncurl. 

They talk of Greg’s hope for promotion to DCI - something Mycroft knows he can affect, but won’t, because he has no doubt Greg can do it on his own merit. Mycroft has little to add to the conversation, but he enjoys watching Greg speak - he’s so expressive, whether he’s gushing about a favorite television show, or griping about a newly hired detective constable that’s testing his patience. Mycroft makes what he hopes are affable responses and keeps Greg’s interest. Greg seems happy. 

When it nears the end of his time, he calls Max and Jean over.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, please meet Max Heineck and Jean-Michel Martín.”

“Good to meet you,” Greg says in that manly way of greeting someone, loud voice and open smile and a strong handshake. “Keeping Mycroft safe, eh? Glad someone’s looking after him.” He smiles unabashed at them as he adds, “He’s kinda special to me, so thanks, guys.”

Max and Jean regard Mycroft with curious looks as they respond with smiles and greetings of their own. Mycroft pretends he isn’t blushing.

“If Detect-, _Greg_ , that is, should ever show up at the flat, he may be let in without much harassment.” He gives Greg a wink, and hopes he comes off as at least a little suave.

“Sure thing, boss,” Max’s German accent gives his voice a pleasant reverb. “We’ll be sure to show him some hospitality.”

Jean grins at Mycroft. “If I’d known the local terroir was so pleasing to the palate, I might have skipped the German cuisine.”

Max eyes Jean with a hunger that almost embarrasses Mycroft, but Greg’s guffaw distracts him. “These two jokers are who you have living in your place?”

“Not us, sir,” Jean’s green eyes glitter against the darkness of his skin. “The straights have that honor.”

“That’s enough, all of you,” Mycroft can’t help his smile as he strives to gain some control over his staff. “Bring the car around, please.”

Jean salutes, and leaves the cafe through the screen door, the bell ringing as the door opens and shuts. Mycroft looks at Max as he expects the man to watch his partner leave, but Max scans the crowd inside the coffee shop. Their ability to work and to play seams together in an effortless way. 

He feels a light touch on his palm as Greg refocuses his attention. 

“I must be off.”

“This time with you has been wonderful, Greg,” Mycroft says. “Are you sure I can’t offer you a ride?”

“We’re going opposite ways, I think.”

_Stop being desperate._ “As you wish, then.”

“Thanks, though. Let’s do this again, soon, yeah?”

“I look forward to it.”

“Great.” Greg leans forward. Mycroft’s face flushes and his heart feels like it might detonate - but then Greg doesn’t kiss him on the mouth. It’s a quick peck on the cheek. He doesn’t miss the fact that his chest pings with disappointment.

“‘Til next time,” Greg grins, and he steps through the door.

The ringing of the bell stays in Mycroft’s memory for hours after.

* * *

“I like this one. Colin White.” Anthea hands a dossier to Mycroft from her seat in the car. “He reminds me a bit of you, but he’s perhaps a bit more like Ben Whishaw’s Quartermaster.” 

Mycroft stares at her. They sit in the black sedan with Jean-Michel in the driver’s seat. Max is beside him. The divider is up. 

“What? I thought you watched the Bond films.”

“I did. I’m only trying to picture what manner of creature you are describing.”

She smiles. “I’m certain he’s the one.” She takes out her compact to check her makeup as he opens the dossier.

He glances over the CV. It is impressive. Some sort of technical wizard who’s been part of corporate think tanks, looking to enter civil service. He hands the file back to her. “I leave it in your capable hands.”

She slides it into her briefcase, a smug look on her face as she latches it close. “Okay, sir, we just need to stop by Baker St. I have the documents for them to sign.”

“Very well.” His stomach curdles at the thought of having to face his brother and the doctor, but he steels himself. “If we must.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, but then smiles down at her blackberry. “The intel on Russia - “

“Anthea, please take no offense. If I am to see Sherlock, I’d rather enjoy the peace and quiet of this moving vehicle before we subject ourselves to whatever noxious smells or sounds are currently saturating 221B.” Mycroft rolls his eyes as he grips the handle of his umbrella.

He catches Anthea smiling again out of the corner of his eye. She’s been smiling more and more. He’s suspected a love affair, but that may be projection on his part.

His phone buzzes. _Mummy_. He ignores it. 

The knocker is askew. Mycroft reaches up to fix it, then lets his hand drop. When Anthea knocks on the door of 221B Baker St, Mrs. Hudson opens. Her eyes narrow at the sight of him, and she rolls them as she opens the door wider and indicates with a wave of her hand that they should step inside. His last interaction with her had been contentious. “ _Would you like a cup of tea?” “Thank you.” “The kettle's over there.” Smug smiles on John and on Sherlock. Treated as a client by Sherlock. Never family._

Then, they'd never learned how to be a family, did they? He decides to ignore the sting behind his sternum and instead gives her a winsome smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“They’re waiting for you upstairs,” she glances at Anthea. “Hello, Miss...?”

“Glinda. I’m here to play fairy godmother for Dorothy and her favorite munchkin,” Anthea says. Mycroft whips his head so fast his neck twinges. Mrs. Hudson’s keen eyes study their faces with a furrowed brow, her mouth ajar. Anthea smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. He clears his throat, and looks at Mrs. Hudson with an expectant smile.

She gives a shake of her head, and waves them on toward the stairs. He sees her return to her flat, still shaking her head as she goes.

Anthea carries her briefcase ahead of her, and Mycroft follows. This is her show, after all. He checks the weight in his pocket, adjusts it so it won’t be noticeable to Sherlock. His beard should be distracting enough. 

To be frank, he wasn’t sure how to respond to the bizarre request. When Sherlock informed him that John wanted Sherlock to adopt Rosie in a text, Mycroft forwarded it to Anthea. Sherlock’s interest in Rosie had taken him by surprise, and the idea that John had decided to make Sherlock Rosie’s second parent officially should have been something he could have predicted. 

But he’d been trying hard not to think of Sherlock too much, outside of the little black book he carried around. 

The memory comes unbidden as he climbs the stairs. The sitting room, Mycroft made to sit in the client’s chair. Scrabbling for what little high ground he might reach. _This is family,_ he’d said. 

_That’s why John stays_. Sherlock’s forceful confirmation of where John stood - between Mycroft and his little brother, apparently. 

_That’s why he should have shot me._

He pushes it all away, clamped down beneath years of practiced control.

They come to the door, which as usual, is open. They walk into the lounge. There’s its usual bit of clutter, papers and books and curios along surfaces. John’s laptop on his desk. The chairs facing one another. The headphones over the skull. None of it is quite the same as it was before the explosion, but it has a tremendous likeness.

“Mycroft, what is that on your face?” Sherlock’s voice booms through the flat. He’s standing in the kitchen with Rosie on his hip. She holds a stuffed giraffe. John walks out of the bathroom, straightening his jumper. They look their usual selves - Sherlock in a suit with a dressing gown draped over it, and John with a collared shirt beneath the fair isle knitted jumper. 

Mycroft, as if responding to a Pavlovian trigger, opens his mouth to retaliate, but then, he decides, he won’t. Even as the deductions start unbidden, he shuts the door to that part of his mind, and looks instead toward the window. “Anthea has your paperwork,” he says in a mild tone.

“Yes, gentlemen, if we could get started.” Her voice is crisp and professional. Mycroft hears her open the briefcase and take out the file folder. “Doctor Watson, you first.”

Mycroft steals a look at John Watson as he walks forward, cup of tea in hand. John’s clearing his throat and casting glances over Anthea’s figure. Mycroft’s aware of Sherlock staring at Mycroft.

John accepts the papers with a smile. “Can we offer you some tea?”

“No.” Her flat response is intended to be off-putting, and apparently John takes the hint, because he sets his teacup down on the desk and starts reading over the documents.

“We’re expediting the paperwork, so you won’t have to jump through the usual hoops. I do hope you are gracious and appreciative of our support in what is a private matter that could have been handled by going through the _actual_ channels.” She’s looking at Sherlock, who glances between her and Mycroft. Mycroft arches an eyebrow at him, trying to feel smug and superior. Sherlock narrows his eyes in annoyance.

“I didn’t realize she could string together so many sentences,” Sherlock says.

“I didn’t realize anyone could forget an entire sister,” Anthea says, her eyes staying on John as he reads.

John’s eyes widen a moment as he pauses, and then returns to perusing the documents. Mycroft smiles at Sherlock when their eyes meet.

“You look ridiculous,” Sherlock says.

John looks at Mycroft, then, and he smirks. “It’s like he went to Canada and found himself a pet.” 

Anthea clears her throat, looks at her watch, and then back at the doctor. John is quick to begin signing his name in the highlighted areas. After a moment, Sherlock is beckoned over and he signs while he balances Rosie on his hip. Rosie stares at Mycroft with that unabashed gaze toddlers have. She has John's snub nose and soft, caramel colored hair. In a way, what with Sherlock gaining parental responsibility, Mycroft’s becoming an uncle to this curious creature. His mind pores through his thoughts on schooling, surveillance, educational toys...and he makes himself stop.

_It would not be welcome_. He continues to remain calm, controlled. _Benign._

After a few minutes, Rosie throws her giraffe on the floor, and begins making a fuss. Sherlock finishes a signature with a swoop, and then tosses her in the air. “See them out, John, and I’ll start Rosie’s bath.”

He walks into the bathroom, talking to the child in low tones. He never glances at Mycroft. Mycroft wonders if ‘thank you’ might be part of Rosie’s vocabulary eventually, because it doesn’t seem to be in her fathers’. He fingers the black notebook in his pocket. A memory flits through his mind. A young Sherlock. _Curly-haired and precocious._ Toddling about with one of Mycroft’s books. Handing it to Mycroft and saying “Thank you.” _He’d thought passing anything to anyone was the occasion to say thank you. He didn’t know it was the person receiving that should say thank you, and that the person giving would reply with ‘you’re welcome.’ He was too young to know. He just thought anytime one person passed something to another, someone would say thank you._ And he'd done it with a singsong voice, low on the 'thank,' and high on the 'you.' It had delighted Mycroft to no end. But, he eventually taught him the social script of 'thank you' and 'you're welcome.'

Mycroft sidles closer to the window. He pretends to lean over and look out. He gives the notebook a final squeeze with his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Anthea and John busy with that last of the signatures. He slides the notebook out of his pocket, and places it on the sill of the window, behind the curtain. 

_Sherlock’s lists._

John sets the pen down and hands everything over to Anthea. The doctor straightens and nods to both of them. “Thank goodness that’s done.” He smirks once more at Mycroft.

Mycroft folds his hands behind him and keeps a smile pasted on his face. Inside his chest, his heart stutters, and he nearly snatches the notebook back. 

Anthea snaps the briefcase shut and says, “Doctor Watson, almost a pleasure. May you learn to be physical with a man without using your fists, yeah?” and strolls out of the room. John stares after her, eyes wide and mouth open. Her heels click down the stairs, fading at the street door.  
  
Mycroft isn’t sure what she means, though he recognizes it as a dig. He starts to follow.   
  
“Mycroft.”   
  
He looks at John, who stands there looking like a child who’s just been caught stealing and is surprised about it. “I-I don’t know what-“   
  
“Anthea has the same access to video footage I do, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft keeps his body still, though his mind spins with questions and possibilities. He hadn’t known Anthea to be so brazen. His thoughts scatter in a thousand different directions, trying to decide what has happened to get them to this point. “Perhaps she saw something she didn’t like.”   
  
He leaves. This time he lets himself straighten the knocker. _One last time._

  
Max opens the car door for him. He thanks him and slides inside. Anthea isn’t texting on her Blackberry. Instead, she stares out the window. The leather seats gleam in the diluted daylight.   
  
Mycroft sighs. His heart clutches with disquiet. “Are you going to make me ask?”   
  
She smirks, but it’s not happy. “Yes.”

A hospital. Sherlock high and beaten.  
  
“The Culverton case. Sherlock’s bruises. The cut on his eyebrow.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
Mycroft is unmoored. His body expands with a vibrating sense of thrashing red rage, and he thinks about rending John Watson limb from torso and mailing the pieces to different quadrants of the earth. He’d known the man to be capable of violence, and in his desire to believe Sherlock had found himself another protector, like Greg, he’d missed the point at which that man became the abuser. His hands grip his pants over his knees, and he has to remind himself to breathe slowly and deeply.   
  
Anthea watches him from the corner of her eye.   
  
“You’re testing me,” he gasps.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
Mycroft exhales. “It cannot happen again.”   
  
“It’s in my hands, Mycroft.”   
  
_And out of mine_. He looks out the window. This is what it means to let go. This is what it means to live in the negative space.

“Yes, it is.”   


* * *

Mycroft fingers his phone. He sits in his home office at his desk. The room is dark but for the glow of one lamp. 

He makes the call as his hands shake. His heart punches against his ribs.

“Hi, Mycroft.” Greg’s voice is warm. “I’m glad you called. Was just thinking about you.”

“Greg,” Mycroft says, and hopes his voice doesn’t quaver. ”I wonder, if perhaps you could help me with something.”

“Course.”

“I am…I am unsure of what I’m feeling lately. Everything is conflicted. I can’t always see where one issue ends and another begins.”

“Oh,” Greg says. “Can you tell me a little more? What’s this about?”

Mycroft breathes in. His hand clasps his knee and squeezes hard before releasing. “Nothing and many things at once.”

Quiet.

“I once told Sherlock that his loss would break my heart.” Mycroft takes careful breaths. At Sherrinford, he’d pushed down his fear of dying, and he offered up his heart. John Watson said nothing of consequence. _It was obvious of the three of them who Sherlock should shoot._ “For years I have existed with my - _emotions_ dammed. Now, it’s as if the levees have broken, and the waters are dangerous. I could drown, or I could be killed by a sharp and heavy object carried by the flood.” _Eurus was more than the East Wind; she was the hurricane._

“You won’t drown,” Greg says, his voice soft. “I’ll help you to stay afloat. We’ll build a boat together, Mycroft.”

Mycroft feels a flash of anger as his eyes brim with wetness. “He despises me. Eurus tried to kill him and his best friend, and he decides she’s a charity case and he’ll do what he can to reach her, to help her to feel - _loved._ ” His voice cracks on the last word. He hurries to cover it. “Perhaps it is her violence that he understands. I - I thought I once understood the language of violence. But, I think I’ve missed its nuances among those who entangle themselves emotionally.” _John’s fists on Sherlock, feet kicking his ribs repeatedly. Sherlock, high and twisting Mycroft’s arm behind him, the painful wrench of his elbow matching the one somewhere below the surface of his chest. Eurus._ “Maybe Sherlock only feels his worth when a person cares enough to be cruel to him. Perhaps, though I meddled and ordered and intimidated, he didn’t understand my brand of communication. Perhaps _I_ should have interpreted his verbal and physical violence toward me as brotherly love.”

Greg sighs, heavy and sad. “Listen, I saw a psychiatrist after my divorce. And something he told me...I know it sounds trite, but he told me that we aren’t responsible for the lives and reactions of other people.”

Mycroft puffs with indignation. “A tiresome line. Haven’t we all heard this type of thinking already? It negates some of the very foundations of community.”

“But have you really put it into practice?” Greg asks. “You’ve been taking care of Sherlock for as long as I’ve known you, and I think you’ve been doing it since childhood. Your parents don’t even know about his drug use.”

Mycroft thinks of Mummy, another element of his life that inspires a wave of conflicted sensations. 

“Sherlock is his own man.” Eurus nearly killed John Watson. John Watson’s wife nearly killed Sherlock. _Perhaps they deserve each another._

“You can’t have expectations about how he should act. That’ll only lead to disappointment, won’t it?” 

Mycroft chokes out a bit of laughter. “The evidence would suggest so.” He holds his forehead in his hand. 

“My ex-wife has this way about her... she didn’t know how to resolve a conflict or listen to the other person without getting defensive. She only...felt empowered when I got angry. Angry enough to throw things.” Mycroft’s breath catches as he thinks of throwing the glass globe. “She’d needle me until I’d react and then suddenly she’d smooth out into this different person. That's when she felt like she was in control. If I was trying to talk with her calmly or convince her to see things my way, she’d throw accusations at me, like she expected the worst of me in every situation. After a while of talking to my psychiatrist, I understood where it came from. She wasn’t...raised by the best sort of parents. She never learned healthy models of coping or interpersonal interactions. Me yelling was when she felt...not only in control, but what she identified as care and concern. I can’t say that this is the same with Sherlock, but somewhere, maybe he learned that negative interactions were the only way he could be with others. I’ve tried to be his friend, and he pushes back at me with insults and pretends he doesn’t know my name. When I’m firm with him, he changes his tune. It’s like...some kind of learned victimhood with him. And I’m not saying you two must have come from an abusive home...but something wasn’t right growing up. Where were your parents, Mycroft?”  
  
Mycroft breathes before he responds. “You’re saying my brother tolerates violence from others because it’s when he feels safest?”   
  
“I’m saying maybe. I don’t know for sure.”   
  
Mycroft’s gut grows cold. No one hit Sherlock as a child. _But no one touched him, either._ His mother’s touches were for show, when there was company. If someone was watching, she knew to play the role. Their father was like another piece of furniture in the room.   
  
And the kids at school...Lord, the kids at school. How could he not have seen it sooner? Sherlock withstood merciless bullying by a group that vacillated between friendship and cruelty.   
  
“I think there’s something there, in your past. I mean; three kids, all geniuses, but one’s a psychopath, and you two are, and I’m sorry to say, somewhat emotionally damaged.”   
  
Mycroft clenches his teeth. His chest expands with a quiet anger.   
  
“I’m sorry if I’ve gone too far. But, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”   
  
Mycroft licks his lips and takes in another breath. “Perhaps.”   
  
“What are you thinking now?”   
  
“Am I...beyond rescue?”   
  
“Christ, no. No, Mycroft.”   
  
Mycroft’s eyes are wet again and his body shakes.   
  
“Mycroft, do you need me to come over? I know we said we’d take it slow, but I - I just want to hold you. I want you to see that I mean it - I’m in your corner. I’m not trying to hurt you. It’s hard to talk about these things with you. I’m not any kind of professional, but I am your friend, and I’d like to be...more, someday.”   
  
“There’s no need.”   
  
“Have you thought about talking to someone qualified? I want you to be able to talk to me, but I may not be as helpful as someone who can be objective, and who’s trained in this sort of thing.”   
  
Mycroft feels a cold creeping across him. “I’m sure I can hold myself together long enough to survive this crisis of character.”   
  
“Mycroft, I’m not taking the - “   
  
“Please, tell me more, after your one stint in the office of a quack, you must be exceptionally qualified yourself to determine who is in need of psychological support.”   
  
Silence. Mycroft tries to hold onto his anger, but his grip is tenuous. He’s in the wrong to snipe at the only person who can see what’s happening to him and doesn’t use it against him. _You'll drive him away_.   
  
Greg speaks. “When I was young, I saw a psychiatrist, because my parents made me. He was certain he could cure me of my 'gayness.'”   
  
His stomach rises to his throat.   
  
“It didn’t help, obviously. Instead, I threw myself into my work, and I married young, and I stayed with her even though we were both unhappy, so that I could put away this ugly part of me.”   
  
“Greg - “   
  
“And then I was struggling at the end of my marriage. I didn’t want to see any ‘quacks,' because believe me, I know what it’s like to see a real quack. But I was hanging by a thread and I was desperate and didn’t know what else to do.”

Mycroft sucks in a breath of air.   
  
“And when I finally said yes, when I finally decided I would see someone, that man helped me more than anyone. I’m comfortable with who I am, Mycroft. I had some really rough years, but I figured it out, and I know who I am.”   
  
He waits for Greg to finish, stomach curling in on itself, thick with dread and shame.   
  
“Do you know who you are?”   
  
Mycroft lets out a ragged huff. The question is more painful than he thought it would be. _Unmade_. Who is Mycroft Holmes? Does he even remember anymore? _Who have I become?_   
  
“I have no doubt that if I hadn’t been so stubborn about therapy, I might have saved her and I from the most bitter years of our marriage.”   
  
Mycroft is still. Eyes closed. Quelling the urge to vomit.  
  
“I will still be here. I want you to talk to me. But you might - and I mean might - benefit from talking to someone who knows what they’re doing.”   
  
“I...apologize for what I said.”

“I know. I know you’re going through something right now. I just hope...I just hope you’ll let me in. Let me help you,” Greg says. “I want to help you.

Mycroft holds the phone with both hands. “I know.”

“Okay. What do you want to do now?”

Mycroft clears his throat and swallows. “I...need some time to think.” 

“Okay. That’s fair. Just, call me if you need a coffee chat, or just need someone to hear you.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. 

“Okay." Greg sighs. "I hate to leave you like this."

"I'll be alright. I need to think."

"Okay, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Mycroft lays the phone on his desk, and lowers his head into his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid, dear readers, that due to real life obligations, there will be no update this Monday, July 15. There will be an update Friday, July 19. 
> 
> In the meantime, if you have not read "[Build My Kingdom on a Fault Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13722375/chapters/31525359)," by Echo, definitely check it out. <3


	5. Contours and Contrast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is shoved off kilter by an unexpected event, and didn't anticipate finding solace in another person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There is a discussion on grief, cancer, and infertility in this chapter. If you would rather avoid the conversation, please note that there is a plus sign (+) right before the conversation begins. Skip down to the minus sign (-) to continue the story. If you have further questions, you can email me at vulpes.apis.mellifera@gmail.com. You can also contact me on twitter (@VMellifera), or Tumblr (Vulpesmellifera). Please indulge in self-care if needed. If you'd like a short summary of the salient point of the conversation, I provide that in the end notes.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments on the last chapter. It was a highlight to my whole week to hear from such wonderful readers. <3

> And if your spirit
> 
> carries within it
> 
> the thorn 
> 
> that is heavier than lead— 
> 
> if it's all you can do 
> 
> to keep on trudging—
> 
> there is still 
> 
> somewhere deep within you 
> 
> a beast shouting
> 
> -Mary Oliver, _Morning Poem_

Mycroft walks out of the elevator with a black travel mug of hot tea in his hand. He swings the umbrella in the other hand as he walks. Jean walks beside him. The journey from the elevator to the car in the underground garage of his maisonette is short, but the biting cold triggers a shiver across his neck. Max waits at the car halfway down the parking garage, warming up the vehicle for their drive to Whitehall. Their footsteps _echo_ across the cavernous space. 

“Jean, you entered Guillaume Bernard’s services at the age of twenty-two. Were you always interested in security?” Mycroft asks as he tucks his chin into his woolen, maroon scarf.

Jean smiles. “No, sir. Mr. Bernard approached me.” His mouth widens into a grin, boyish and lovely. “I earned my keep as a cage fighter before I met Mr. Bernard.”

Mycroft pauses mid-step, but recovers his stride. _Why must my every emotion make itself known to others?_ He clears his throat. “A cage fighter?”

“Mixed martial arts,” Jean replies. “There’s a ban, now, in France, but in my time, I was a champion.” His smooth voice is sprinkled with a soft, Parisian accent. In the bright underground lighting, his dark skin gleams. His eyes are like two pieces of jade. _He really is a beautiful man. Max Heineck is very fortunate._ Mycroft smiles to himself as he thinks of another set of eyes, wet umber paint on a palette the color of light heartwood. The man beside him is beautiful, but the man he thinks of in the dark of night...he is exquisite.

“Mr. Holmes?” He hears Jean prompting him. 

“Oh, heavens, apologies, Jean. My mind has been a little distracted as of late.”

Jean elbows him. _Like they’re good friends_. “By a certain detective inspector, sir?” His eyes twinkle, and though the old Mycroft would have castigated the man for his impertinence, the new Mycroft can’t be bothered. Instead, he laughs.

The _roar_ of an engine catches their attention. The hairs on his nape tingle as his shoulder blades tense. A white van barrels around the corner. Colors turn vivid, sharp. The van careens closer and _screeches_ to a stop in front of them, the noise of the engine filling the air and making Mycroft's heart race. Jean pushes Mycroft behind him and the world shrinks to the sight of six men wearing black masks exiting the vehicle. 

His heart hammers inside his rib cage as he drops his travel mug with a _clang_ and hefts his umbrella. Jean steps back into a side-angle pose, his hands palms out by his sides. Mycroft yanks his thin-bladed sword from the umbrella. The masked men advance. 

Jean tenses like a jaguar from a limb. He leaps, a flash of black cloth as a hand strikes the first opponent in the throat. Jean ducks, kicks out, driving his boot into the solar plexus of a second attacker. Mycroft steps to one side, sword held at he ready, his feet perpendicular to one another as old lessons in fencing kick in. His heart is in his throat as his eyes search for weapons. 

An assailant dives around the fight and lunges toward him. There's the _scrape_ of boots over pebbles against concrete flooring. Jean whirls in midair, lands, and leaps again to bring one arm around the man’s neck. As the two collapse to the ground with a _thwack_ , a second opponent comes up behind Jean with a baton held high.

 _Move._ Mycroft starts forward when a _bellow_ distracts him - the mountain of man that is Max Heineck slams into the body of the baton-wielding attacker. There’s a flurry of movement that Mycroft can't parse. Jean wrenches the arm of the man on the ground and slams his head into the concrete. Max shoves his opponent toward the van, who shouts “let’s go!” The rest stagger after, with the exception of the man lying beneath Jean on the concrete. Jean leaps to his feet as their attackers run for the van. He starts to follow - but then Max falls to the ground with a grunt. 

Mycrof’s chest heaves with the flush of adrenaline. Max lays on the floor of the garage, hand over his stomach. Blood trickles through his fingers. The van peels away, and the air echoes with the sound like a dying animal. Jean takes out his phone. Mycroft registers that he’s calling for an ambulance. 

Mycroft moves his feet in a weak sort of shuffle to Max, and drops to his side. _Fuck. Oh fuck._ It all happened so quickly that Mycroft wonders if he's dreamt it. Except, Max’s eyes are pinched with pain. He holds his stomach, and his breathing is stilted. Mycroft’s gaze is drawn to the blood pooling between his fingers. _Quinacridone red._

Jean appears on the opposite side of Max. “Ambulance and police are on the way.” He moves Max’s hands away and puts pressure on the wound. “Lucian and Irina are coming.” 

Max’s skin is too white. 

“Restez avec moi, mon amour,” Jean whispers. “Restez avec moi.”

 _Stay with me_ , Mycroft’s brain translates. _Stay with me._

Someone else has entered the parking garage and asks if they need help. Mycroft ignores them to get out his phone. 

“Mr. Holmes?” Anthea answers.

He has to swallow around a lump in his throat before he speaks. “Check the video feed for the underground parking lot at my address.” He notices the man trying to offer them help. _A neighbor._ _Unimportant._ He waves the man away. “Save the footage. We need to find out who is responsible for an attempted abduction of my person. The police are on their way. We’ll take over from them, of course.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Anthea barks orders to Colin. 

Mycroft adds, “There’s an ambulance coming for Max.” He disconnects the call. 

Jean begs in a soft mix of French and German as he presses down on the wound. Max is turning grey. _Titanium white, Prussian blue, cadmium yellow medium, cadmium red, Payne's grey -_ Mycroft shuts his eyes against the thoughts of creating an ashen pallor on canvas. Instead, on the back of his lids he sees memories like an old home movie - he’s running down the upstairs hallway of Musgrave Hall. Sherlock kneels in his bed, curls askew and eyes swollen with tears. His curtains are on fire _._ Sherlock raises up his hands as he _screeches_ \- it was the screeching that woke Mycroft to trouble in the first place. He dodges forward, grabs Sherlock around the waist, and darts back into the hallway, Sherlock's little limbs wrapped around him.

Sherlock’s wasn’t the only room on fire. Panting and huffing, Mycroft carried Sherlock down the stairs through an oppressive heat that licked at his skin and smoke that burned his eyes. 

He opens his eyes again as Jean lowers his head over the body.

* * *

Mycroft stands by the fireplace of his flat. His pulse skitters, his muscles twitch, and an anger boils deep in his belly. He looks at the objects on the mantle. Remembers the day in his office when he had thrown the objects from his desk - small comfort as it was. His fingers burn to grab the statue at the end of the mantle, a replica of The Motherland Calls - a woman with sword held overhead - and dash it across the herringbone pattern of the wood floors. Next to that, his copy of Sun-Tzu’s _The Art of War_.

Neither will be satisfying, he knows.

The dinner plates. They were a gift to him from his mother. _He’s very limited._

 _He’s very limited._ Her words, over and over and over.

He didn’t see today’s attack coming. He didn’t predict the chaos Eurus would cause, as a child or as an adult. 

_He’s very limited._

Mycroft stalks across the floorboards and throws open the white cabinets of the kitchen. Clasping the cool stoneware, he wings one, and then a second across the room. The resulting _crash_ _crash_ is a cacophony to his ears, and his blood sings with it. He spikes one on the floor before him watching as the plate shatters and the shards ricochet from floor to kitchen island and against lower cabinetry. Pieces ping about in unpredictable constellations, like broken billiards balls prevented from following a smooth course across green velvet. He can almost predict their paths because that is what his mind is, a computer that takes in information and spits out probabilities and algorithms, even if this computer has been infected with a virus.

He didn’t see the attack coming. _He’s very limited._

He breaks each of the eight dinner plates, and moves on to the dessert plates, whose sound is not quite as full. They break with higher, _plinky_ notes, and then he’s onto the mugs, which provide him with a deeper satisfaction in the odd off-center ways they shatter. He sees the web of his anger before him, invisible strands between each broken piece of pottery smashed across the length of the open floor plan between kitchen, lounge, and dining area. 

When the cabinet is empty, bereft of plates and cups and water glasses (how their breaking had a certain _tinkle_ that he relished), he opens the next cabinet, faced with wine, whisky, and martini glasses, decanters, and schooners. He slips both of his hands to one side of a shelf, and sweeps across, pushing every glass onto the counter and floor below. His ears _ring_ with the cascade of _cracking_ and _rumbling_ and _clashing_ that follows. 

He presses a hip against the hard edge of the counter as his chest heaves. That’s when he feels eyes upon him.

“Mr. Holmes?” Irina stands in the doorway to the stairs. Behind her is Henri. Both are watching him with carefully schooled features. “I think you might be bleeding, sir.”

Mycroft looks down at his hands, and sure enough, there’s a gash in his left palm. The blood wells at the opening, trickling onto his wrist.

“I’ll fix that up for you.” Mycroft doesn’t miss how Irina turns to face her husband, giving him a nod of her head, and Henri retreats down the hall to their room. 

Irina disappears into the bathroom. Mycroft watches the blood trail down his wrist, and drip onto the floor, which is now a madman’s mosaic of porcelain and colored glass. His vision is murky, like overmixed wet oil paint on canvas, heavy with the smell of turpentine and linseed oil in his nostrils. 

Something drips from his face and hits the floor without a sound. He reaches up with his right hand. _I’m - I’m crying._ He staggers, but remembers the state of the floor, and forces his legs to straighten - forces himself to walk across the carnage while the weight of his footsteps crush glass beneath the soles of his Italian leather shoes. He sinks into one of the chairs of the lounge. 

Irina reappears with the first aid kit, and sits on the coffee table in front of him. She’s gentle in the way she takes his hand in hers, and wipes the cut with a wet cloth. She says nothing as she works, wiping away the blood that’s already pooled. To apply pressure, she holds his hand between her two.

Mycroft feels grateful for the contact. It is only his hand, but someone is holding him. Someone cares, even if that someone is paid staff.

_Greg._

No. None of that now.

Irina lifts the cloth. She whispers, “The laceration is minor. Shallow. I’ll use the tissue adhesive.”

Mycroft looks over the mess, the chaos he’s created. The cool blue of moonlight dances over the veins of broken pottery and mingles with warm glints of firelight. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh, it’s alright.” She goes back to the kit to pull out the glue. “We all grieve in our ways.”

”Max’s still alive,” Mycroft says. “Isn’t he?” When they left hospital, Mycroft couldn’t stop seeing Max in his bed, feet sticking out at one end because the A&E beds were too short for someone his size. Machines _whirred_ and lights blinked as numbers moved up and down and the dissonance in the air between reality and disbelief was palpable.

“He is, but we both know that’s not entirely what I’m referring to,” she replies. She's efficient with her ministrations, her touch soft. Her precision with gluing the edges of skin back together is impressive. 

“Thank you,” he says as she places everything back in the kit. 

“I’d offer you a drink to relax, but I’m not sure we have any glasses left,” she quips with a quirked brow.

Mycroft can’t help it. He chortles, and it works like some kind of pressure valve. _Relief._

Irina smiles at him, gentle and careful. “Jean called. Max is out of surgery, and he’s doing well.”

Mycroft feels more of the weight fall away. “I am relieved.” 

Irina smiles as she moves from the coffee table to the sofa. “The man they took into custody is alive, and will heal from his injuries. Anthea is working very hard with Colin to determine who is behind the attack, and she tells me she has a theory. She’ll give you a full report in the morning.”

“Then I am to wallow in ignorance until then?” Mycroft asks, then cringes at the sharpness in his voice.

“You are to rest.” Irina is always genial when she speaks, even when she is giving orders, he realizes. “Henri and I will watch over you tonight. Jean is with Max and will notify us of any changes. Trust Anthea to look over your affairs. All is as it should be.”

“Hm, what would I do without you,” Mycroft murmurs.

Irina looks out over the wreckage of the dinnerware, a soft smile on her lips. “You’d have more privacy for this sort of thing, I suppose.”

Mycroft snorts. He looks down at his left palm, which has just begun to ache. 

“It is difficult for people like us to grieve, is it not?” 

Mycroft meets her eyes. “I imagine grief is difficult for everyone.” He looks down at his right hand, unbandaged, as it clutches the arm of the chair. His knuckles turn white.

“Yes, but for some, it’s been their lot to learn how to grieve. They accept that they must grieve. It’s unpleasant, but not unexpected.” Irina’s eyes shift to the fireplace, growing distant as if remembering something...unpleasant. “For some of us, we think we are above it. Grief is unexpected, and therefore a shock, an awful and cruel shock, and we can’t even begin to name it as it deals us damage.”

Mycroft leans back in his chair, his knees rubbing together. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. I’m not sure -" He inhales. “I am not sure I am grieving, or for what.”

“I think you grieve for yourself, Mr. Holmes.” Irina’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I recognize it in you. You have lost some sense of yourself.”

Mycroft's stomach and scalp prickles. 

“I can tell by your face that I’m right.” She tilts her head at him. “I’ve been there, in that dark place.”

Mycroft stays quiet. Her face is highlighted in rouge and ochre with the low lighting in the room, mostly reflected firelight. Her eyes never flick away from his as she speaks.

+

“I had cancer of the uterus. Once it was determined to be type 2, it was recommended that I have the tumors removed surgically. Since it had already spread through parts of my uterus, I had the entire organ removed.” Her eyes shift back to the fire, as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It saved my life, but it also redefined it.”

She looks back to the stairwell, as if to check for the presence of her husband, before turning back to Mycroft. “My husband and I had planned for children. Our jobs are dangerous, but it was thought Henri would bow out, as it were, and raise our children while I continued working. We knew Mr. Bernard would be very generous with us, and we could have raised our children alongside his own.

“It may seem strange to grieve for something you’ve never had, but it is human.” She continues. “The part that surprised me, however, was that I was changed, irrevocably. I never realized how much of my identity was tied up in my biology. What is the female of the species, if not the one who bears the children?” She rolls her eyes, but then she sobers. “An outdated idea, surely, but one I didn’t realize I held on to personally. There are women who lose their breasts to cancer, and experience much of the same feeling. We have these concepts of ourselves, and when they are altered, we experience grief for what we've lost.

“Of course, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. I said unbelievable things to Henri. Hurtful things. I said hurtful things to myself. Thought hurtful things. It was more than about losing the opportunity to bear my own children. It was about feeling as if I was a failure. As if I didn’t deserve to be loved. I was damaged. The truth was I no longer had a grasp on reality, because my sense of reality had been knocked off kilter.”

Mycroft stares at her, and nods.

Irina smiles at him, and instead of it being her usual amused and indulgent smile, it’s worn. “I knew you would understand. So then, allow me to reassure you. It passes. It’s never fully gone, but the sharpness of it will dull. You’ll adapt. And if you allow it, you may even become stronger because of it. 

“In my case, I’ve learned that my parts do not define me as a woman. I wonder at the fact that I ever thought that, as there are women who are born appearing as male at birth, but they are women. The ability to procreate does not make one a woman or a man. It taught me that we have enculturated beliefs which we use to define ourselves, and they’re not always healthy for us, or helpful. Letting go of these beliefs and adopting new ones can help us feel centered in ourselves once again. We define ourselves, and create our own meaning of life.” 

-

Mycroft’s face is hot. It’s as if someone reached into the recesses of his skull and pulled out exactly what he needed to see. “I don’t pay you enough,” he says, knowing he hasn’t the words to truly thank her. His throat is thick with something unnameable and his eyes sting. 

“The talk is free, Mr. Holmes.” She eyes the mess in the room. “The cleaning, however…”

Mycroft shakes his head and blinks a wetness from his eyes. “Go to bed. I shall hire someone else to come in and clean. We’ll go to the park in the morning while they do it, and on the way home, we’ll buy a new set.”

“As you wish,” she smiles at him and her eyes look light again.

They stand and walk to their respective bedrooms, parting at the stairs. 

“Irina,” Mycroft says before he puts his foot on the first step. “I am - sorry, for what you went through.”

Irina is turned slightly away from him. “It is what it is. And it's in the past. I can’t let it rule my future. It might steal happiness there.”

Mycroft is struck by her words, and begins to wonder if he’s actually hired some kind of life guru in the form of a thirty-seven year old woman with a pronounced skill for disarming opponents. She has certainly disarmed him.

He turns to where she was standing, but she’s gone, a soft _click_ of the bedroom door the only sound in the dim light. 

* * *

As Mycroft prepares for bed, he sees his phone, which he’d ignored for the past two hours. He needed to think, and he relied on the Denaults to inform him of any changes with Max’s recovery. _That’s what it is. His recovery._ He won’t let it be anything else though one part of his mind if off and running with thoughts of future scenarios like moving chess pieces across a board.

There are texts on his phone from Greg.

Received 7:55 pm

_Mycroft, are you ok?_

Received 7:56 pm

_I saw the names of those involved in an attack. Those are your men, aren’t they?_

Received 8:10 pm

_Is Max okay?_

Received 8:20 pm

_I called the hospital._

Received 8:21 pm

_Please let me know that you’re alright._

_This is what it means to care._ And it’s too late; he can’t cage that particular beast any longer. He cares, and it’s not just about Sherlock anymore. He cares about these people in his employ who have somehow embedded themselves beneath his skin and added colors to the palette of his life. Greg, his light in the darkness at the chalet, could likely become one of the most important people in Mycroft’s life. 

_I don’t know that I am strong enough._

He shuts off his phone and gets into bed. The cut on his hand continues to throb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family obligations have come up for the next two weekends, so I am posting on Fridays only at this point. Thank you for your patience. Much love to you all!
> 
> An Artist Mycroft recommendation this week: [Worth a Thousand Words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7242751) by janto321. Hope it whets your appetite. ;-)
> 
> If you skipped the conversation: Irina shares a personal story with Mycroft to illustrate that grief isn't always about losing other people. We can also grieve for the loss of ourselves, or the idea of our self. When a long-held belief changes, there can be grief to accompany it, and this is perfectly human, and it will come to pass.


	6. Shading and Form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes a monumental decision. Then, a discovery.

> "Long is the way, and hard, that out of Hell
> 
> leads up to light."
> 
> \- John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

Mycroft wakes in shivers, his long legs tangled in the sheets. There’s a _rap_ at the door. 

“I’m fine. Just, a dream, that’s all.” His voice starts out strong and firm, but fades. The door opens.

“Sir, I just need a visual.” Henri says, his silhouette backlit from the hall light.

“Of course.” Mycroft hopes Henri can’t see the sweat on his face. 

“Very good, sir. Shall I get you anything?”

“No, Henri. Please. Go back to bed. I apologize for waking you.”

“No apologies necessary, Mr. Holmes.” Henri tips his head, closes the door behind him, and leaves Mycroft to the darkness.

Mycroft holds his head in his hands and takes deep breaths to quell the panic. His heart throbs, but it isn’t too long before his pulse slows, and his breathing softens.

In this nightmare, Eurus had handed him the gun, and he shot Max in the gut as Jean watched. _Restez avec moi_. The blood was lamp black like oil. A little girl sang a French nursery rhyme that hung in the air. _Eurus, again and again, I am haunted by the East Wind._

He presses his knuckles to his teeth.

_I need help._

* * *

Anthea’s name appears on his phone when it vibrates. 

“Yes?” He answers. He sits on the sofa, watching a small sparrow at the window, thin legs like pieces of vine charcoal. The bird sings as if spring were right around the corner. He fiddles with a pen in his lap while he holds the phone to his ear.

“Sir, I’m calling to report on two things. One, Max Heineck is awake and it would seem his recovery should go well.”

Mycroft knew this already. Irina, Henri, and Jean have been texting one another all morning. It would seem Max is eager to get out of hospital, and has taken to removing his monitoring devices so that he flatlines and ticks off the nurses at the front desk. Jean finds it so amusing he doesn’t move to stop him. Irina assures Mycroft that it’s better than the alternative, which could be Max urinating in the corner of the room. 

“We’re fortunate the great idiot is bedridden,” she laughed. Mycroft shuddered, but couldn’t hide his smile. 

Anthea continues. “Second, the man who was taken into custody has been identified as Miles Taylor. He was released from prison six months ago after serving time for armed robbery and assault.” She sighs. “It seems Mr. Taylor, age thirty-nine, suffered cardiac arrest in the middle of the night and passed away.”

Mycroft stills. “How convenient,” he says. The bird takes one hop over on the ledge, then flies off into the sky.

“My thought exactly,” Anthea replies. “I am reviewing hospital footage as we speak. There was a guard outside Mr. Taylor’s room all night and I’m having that person brought in for questioning.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft’s mind spins with possibilities. “Anthea, is this a covert operation?”

“It is, Mr. Holmes. I’m not involving MI5. It’s Colin, myself, Jean, and Henri.” 

“Jean? Isn’t he with Max?” He twists around to see Irina sitting at the dining table. Henri appears from the hallway, dressed in a black peacoat and navy jeans .

“Mr. Holmes,” Anthea replies and he can tell she’s smiling. “Jean-Michel Martín is a bit of an instigator when it comes to his partner’s antics in hospital.”

“Is Max safe?” 

“Max was not the target,” Anthea reminds him. 

“And Henri?” He says while he watches the man bend down to kiss his wife on the cheek.

“Henri has experience with interrogation.”

Mycroft nods to Henri as the man salutes him and heads for the door.

“Sir, one other item. Detective Inspector Lestrade inquired as to your status. I’ve informed him that you are safe and unharmed.”

Mycroft’s heart contracts. “Thank you.” He clears his throat.

“I’ll call back with our findings.”

“Yes.” Mycroft is unused to her dismissal, but this is what he’s started: her rise in the ranks. “Before you go, please make a...quiet appointment with Doctor Hammond.”

There’s a pause. “The old place, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Holmes. I’ll speak with you soon.”

* * *

An hour later, his phone buzzes with a text.

Received 9:07 a.m. 

_Hi. Sorry for all the texts. I was worried._

Mycroft’s brow furrows. _I can’t let this go further_. Everything is too close. His chest is tight with some desperate, dangerous feeling and he can’t lose control at this point in his life. The situation has become more precarious.

Sent 9:08 a.m.

_I assume you’re inquiring due to yesterday’s skirmish._

Received 9:08 a.m.

_Skirmish? Didn’t Max get stabbed?_

He did. 

Sent 9:09 a.m.

_Max was wounded but is recovering in hospital._

Received 9:09 a.m.

_Mycroft, are you alright?_

Mycroft tries not to think of the cleaning service that came in and swept away the evidence of his declining mind. He throws things in fits, and he forgets appointments. _This isn’t you. You shouldn’t be like this._

Sent 9:10 a.m.

_I’m fine._

Received 9:11 a.m. 

_Will Max be alright?_

Sent 9:11 a.m.

_Max is enacting his own brand of terrorism_

_On medical personnel. I believe Sherlock_

_Would approve of his methods._

There’s a hollow ache at the thought of Sherlock. Sherlock who is no longer his to worry about.

Received 9:11 a.m.

_That’s a scary thought._

_Can I come see you?_

Mycroft considers. His chest aches with the thought of seeing Greg. He wants the feel of strong arms around him. It’s such a tremendous urge that his gut hurts with the idea of not seeing him. _It shouldn’t be like this._

Sent 9:12 a.m.

_I believe it wouldn’t be safe at the moment._

_I should prefer to have the threat neutralized_

_Before continuing our engagement._

There. Now it didn’t matter what Mycroft’s weak heart wanted. 

Sent 9:13 a.m.

_I do not want you to become a target_

_By your association with me._

A moment of silence. A watery feeling of disappointment followed by sharp panic begins to envelop him. 

Received 9:14 a.m.

_Can we still text/talk over mobile?_

He breathes with relief when Greg answers. He smiles as he types out his response before he can overthink it. 

Sent 9:14 a.m.

_Yes._

* * *

The warehouse is the same place he met John Watson all those years ago. There’s been no reason to use it for a while. He likes to switch it up anyway. 

The black sedan has pulled up with a low _growl_ of the engine. Doctor Hammond steps out. He sees Mycroft, and his frown turns into a look of surprise, followed by a certain sense of smugness.

Mycroft indicates the chair. He sits in his own chair this time. He’s not looking to intimidate the psychiatrist.

“Well, Mycroft, this isn’t how this usually works. What brings me to see you today?” Doctor Hammond sits in the chair. It _creaks_ beneath his weight. 

“I should like to inquire about your services as a psychiatrist.” Mycroft keeps his hands folded in his lap over a black dossier, locking his eyes on Doctor Hammond’s nose. “I have - nightmares. I’d like to be rid of them.”

Doctor Hammond swivels in his chair to get a look at their surroundings. High ceiling, old pipes, cement ground and cinder block walls. His eyes land on Mycroft and he gives a nod. “What do you dream about?”

“You are aware of what occurred at Sherrinford. I don’t believe you’ve been made entirely aware of my sister’s history.” Mycroft leans forward, feeling the weight of a stone in his chest as he extends his hand with the dossier for Doctor Hammond to take. When Doctor Hammond takes it, the weight in his chest dissolves to a nervous prickle.

Doctor Hammond opens the file and scans it quickly. It summarizes the events that occurred on Sherrinford with Sherlock and John, which Doctor Hammond already knew of for Mycroft’s evaluation. This particular file includes the patient history for Eurus, including Mycroft’s and Uncle Rudy’s testimonials as to her psychotic behaviors as a child.

The psychiatrist leans back in the chair and reads for a moment. He glances up at Mycroft. “I’d rather hear this in your words, Mycroft.”

Mycroft avoids his gaze, stares at a flickering fluorescent light instead. “I’d prefer it if you’d read it for yourself.”

Doctor Hammond closes the dossier and lays it in his own lap. “Mycroft, I understand that you are a very intelligent man.” Mycroft restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “However, I’m not too dull, and I happen to be very good at my job. If you’re signing on to be my patient, you need to give me a little credit. Be open to my suggestions. Trust in my process. You don’t want to have these nightmares? Tell me what happened. In your own words.”

Mycroft’s lungs expand with air as he considers. He releases the breath, opens his mouth, and says, "Please."

It’s decided that Mycroft’s time with Doctor Hammond should be discreet, in the nature of Mycroft’s work. Doctor Hammond will not write anything down. Mycroft won’t come to his office. Doctor Hammond returns the file to Mycroft, and Mycroft takes it home with him.

He burns it in the fireplace.

* * *

Henri and Irina file into the hospital room behind Mycroft. Max is in the bed, sitting up, his legs on top of the covers. He’s wearing gym shorts, exposing muscular, furred legs. His t-shirt says “I’m Not Yelling, I’m German,” which is an ironic statement for Max to wear since he says few words and usually only in a low rumble. 

Jean smirks at them. “It’s to unnerve the staff here.” He shrugs a shoulder as he stands. Irina and Henri hug him, and the three start a flurry of French and German as they recount the past forty-eight hours.

Mycroft’s phone rings, and he glances at the screen to see it’s _Mummy_ calling _._ He refocuses on the people before him and hands the protein shake he’s carrying to Max. Jean had texted him that Max’s favorite is strawberry banana.

“ _Danke,_ ” Max says.

“ _Bitte_ ,” Mycroft replies. “And thank you, Max. You may have saved my life. And Jean’s.”

Max shrugs. “It’s the job, but for you, sir, and for my fine piece of _schokolade_ , I am happy to do my job.” 

Jean reaches over and pinches Max’s arm, his green eyes dancing and his face aglow. Irina pushes Jean out of the way to hug Max. “I’m so glad you’re safe. Don’t let it happen again.”

“Mr. Bernard sends his condolences.” Henri glances at Mycroft as he says this, a dare on his face. “He says he can’t believe you finally lost your knife virginity, and it was to some English prude.”

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “Something Guillaume would have personal experience with, I’m sure,” he says. Irina lets out a yelp of laughter and the men join in.

His phone pings with the voicemail notification. He reads the voice-to-text translation. 

_Mycroft, this is your mother, call me back._

He puts the phone back in his pocket. 

* * *

“The footage was tampered with.” Anthea sets up her laptop. They’re sitting in what is now her office at Whitehall. She’s decorated with somber paintings of London along the walls, though the painting of the queen remains over her desk. He sits across from her, and somehow, he doesn’t mind. 

She points the screen toward him. “Watch.”

He sees black and white footage of the hospital lobby. The nurse at the front desk is sitting at her computer. People come and go, night staff carrying clipboards and cups of coffee.

He almost doesn’t catch it. A cup by the crook of the nurse’s elbow appears, as if materializing from thin air. Someone has placed the film on a loop.

He frowns. “Who had access?”

“Colin’s working on it, sir.”

The ginger-haired boy-man (he’s got a hapless look about him with unkempt hair and glasses) waves to them from the corner and bends back over his own laptop. 

“And the guard?”

“Leander Harris was stubborn, until Henri and Jean started questioning him.” She exhales with a loud sigh. “They frightened the guard right out of his wits. He described this person to Jean, who apparently is quite the sketch artist.”

Mycroft is surprised to see an exquisitely rendered sketch before him. Jean has more than a passing talent for this.

But that’s not important. What is important is that the sketch of the man staring at him from the page is none other than the mouse-haired lackey who was at Sir Edwin’s heels in the stairwell that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's fic to check out is a Post-Sherrinford series by JessieBlackwood: [Winterlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839501/chapters/31828629).


	7. Eraser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there will be a reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! We're back to our Monday and Friday postings. Enjoy!

> I know I am solid and sound,
> 
> To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
> 
> All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. 
> 
> -Walt Whitman, _Song of Myself_

Doctor Hammond comes over for dinner that night. Mycroft itches to check in with Anthea, who is working with Colin on their discovery of the tampered footage. 

“There’s little else you can do, right now, and you can’t miss your first appointment.” Anthea glared at him as he dithered over where to tell Henri to drive. 

Finally, he turned to her and said, “Don’t expect, if you make yourself essential, that they won’t resent you when you go to walk out the door.”

Anthea worried her lower lip with her teeth as she digested what he said. Then, she nodded. “You expected this.”

“I expected something. To be honest, I thought Eurus would be behind it. Now, I am uncertain.”

Anthea told Henri to drive them home, where he was walked to his flat by Irina and Jean. Henri drove Anthea to her office to meet Colin.

Now, he stands in his lounge with his new psychiatrist, and hands the man a glass of chilled Sauternes. He stares at his own wine glass, his mind filing through the events of the last two and a half days. The sweet tasting wine glows like spun sunshine in the light from the fire. 

“Distracted, Mycroft?” Doctor Hammond says. 

“Mm. Pardon.” He takes a sip. The sweetness of the wine clings to his palate as he explains the recent events - attempted abduction of his person and a hospitalized employee - in a succinct and even tone. 

Doctor Hammond takes it in, to his credit, without a look of shock or astonishment. “How has this helped your sleeping?”

Mycroft knows he has dark half-circles beneath his eyes, but he’s kept his beard trim, his hair gelled back, and his usual uniform of a three-piece suit and matching pocket handkerchief. “It hasn’t,” he clips out. 

“I can imagine. Is this the sort of daily thing to expect in your line of work?”

“No. But it happens enough, it would seem.” A shudder runs through him as he thinks of Sherrinford. 

“Tell me about something that relaxes you.” The fire _crackles_ in the background. 

Mycroft’s lips twitch. “I paint.”

“Oh, lovely.” Doctor Hammond tries the wine. "Oh, my, this is sweet."

Mycroft gestures to the table. “I promise it will pair well with the flan. Please, sit. Irina left our dessert in the refrigerator. I shall serve us.” 

As he places the plates of flan on the table, his phone buzzes. He's quick to check it, his heart thumping with the hope that it's an update on the perpetrator of the attack. He sees _Mummy_ on the ID, and shuts it off. 

“Not a pleasant call, I take it.”

“My mother,” Mycroft says. The caramel fragrance of the dessert hangs in the air. 

“Ah. And, what does your mother do?” 

“She and Father travel quite a bit, now. She was a mathematician, once.” He clears his throat. “Gave that up to raise the children.”

“Huh. Would’ve thought your family the type to hire nannies.”

Mycroft bites the inside of his cheek. “Yes. We had nannies.”

“But your mother was very hands on, I take it?”

His fist curls in his lap. The only sound in the room is a _pop_ from the fire. “As much as she could be, I suppose.” _Be honest. Be honest. Be honest._

“And your father?”

“Liked to read.” He picks up his spoon, but the flan is less tantalizing, now. 

There’s a pause. Doctor Hammond inhales over the dessert. “Mmm. I love flan. Good choice.” He picks up his own spoon. He takes a bite, and moans. “How are your moods?”

Mycroft sighs and places his spoon back on the table. “You are eating on new plateware. I broke the set before this one.”

“The entire set?”

Mycroft looks around the room. “The cleaners did a commendable job removing all the sharp pieces.”

Doctor Hammond is assessing him with a sharp gaze. Mycroft meets it with one of his own.

“And what do you dream about?”

“I dream...about dying. About drowning in a well. About fire. Sometimes I’m shot.” Mycroft recites this in a flat voice, as if bored with the topic. 

“Who shoots you?”

Mycroft clings to his bored tone. “Sometimes it’s Sherlock.. Occasionally, I shoot him, or he shoots me. At other times, it’s Eurus.”

“Do you ever shoot her?”

Mycroft barks a laugh, but it sounds like the grunt of a wounded animal. “No. Some nights, she appears as a child. At times, she’s just a voice.” He gazes at the candles on the table. The flames burn steadily. “She sings a French nursery rhyme. _Promenons-Nous Dans Les Bois._ A song about a wolf who hunts children.” 

“I read the report that lead to her incarceration. Your uncle facilitated the whole thing, along with making it appear that she had died to your parents.”

“He feared they would organize for her release,” Mycroft says. 

“And it's been confirmed that she killed the boy Victor Trevor.”

“Yes.”

“Well, fuck. We’ve got our work cut out here, don’t we?” The psychiatrist grins and sticks another piece of flan in his mouth.

“I don’t appreciate the levity,” Mycroft says as he flattens one hand on the table. His uncle’s ring is dull.

Doctor Hammond notices him looking. “Family heirloom?

Mycroft’s lip curls. “Something like that.” He hadn’t meant to give himself away. “It was a promise, and a reminder.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Mycroft talks. And talks. He was the brilliant protege of a brilliant man, who convinced Mycroft that Eurus' secret imprisonment was best for the Holmes family - and that the safety and well-being of his family and of England was the pinnacle achievement of his life. Rudy's dreams for him. 

It's not until he goes to bed that night that he begins to wonder why he never had any dreams for himself.

* * *

Four days later, Mycroft walks through the halls of Vauxhall Cross with Anthea, Irina, Henri, and Jean at his heels. His personnel pass gains them access to the inner offices of Security Intelligence Services. He heads straight to the office of Sir Edwin. The PA at the desk outside, a sandy-haired white man with a mole on his forehead stands. “You-”

Mycroft slams one end of his umbrella on the desk. “If you do not want to be dragged into an arrest, you will sit back down and shut up.” 

The man, Mycroft knows him as Owen Langley, holds his hands up and sits. His eyes move to the door. “And, to be certain you don’t do anything to make me angry, Jean will be happy to keep you company.” 

Jean sits on the edge of the desk, his hands folded in his lap, a predatory smile on his face as he settles his gaze on Mr. Langley.

It is no surprise to Mycroft when he opens the doors that Lady Smallwood is seated across from Sir Edwin at his large, mahogany desk. Anthea and he planned this based on her presence. 

Sir Edwin shoots up to a stand. “Mr. Holmes,” Sir Edwin says in a stern tone. “I don’t believe we were meeting today.” Lady Smallwood twists in her chair to face them with a little ‘oh’ shape of her mouth.

“We don’t have a meeting. I am here to inform you that your attempt at an abduction was shoddy at best, and the fact that one of my employees was injured has made me quite angry.”

Sir Edwin’s jaw tenses, and he starts to shake his head no, but Lady Smallwood stands, and gives him an exasperated look. He throws up his hands. “Really, Mycroft, is that all? You should have had them vetted by the right people. Of course it was necessary to test your new staff. You’re a protected government asset, after all.”

“Wrong answer,” Mycroft strides toward the desk. “This was no _test_ , Edwin. It was the middle of the day, though in an underground garage. You couldn’t be sure your men wouldn’t be seen, though you tampered with the security cameras, of course. It wasn’t a test, it was a display of power. 

“You’re trying to rattle me. My security team didn’t even have to pull their guns. I had to ask myself why. _Why_ after all of these years, these operations we’ve run together, the trust we’ve built here as the shield between England and her detractors, would my partner in security services wish to scare and therefore control _me_.”

Mycroft cuts to Lady Smallwood. “It took some time to uncover the why, which is to say that my team spent hours scouring paper trails and digital trails. I have a very good team, I’d say a better one, now.” He doesn’t miss the twitch of the lips from Anthea - the work had been done by her and Colin with little input from Mycroft. “And the answer lies in off-shore bank accounts, and filthy opportunities to make a quick buck off war-torn countries, with my _sister_ as advisor, rather like a Moriarty. Respinning the old cobweb that was swept away when my brother had the skin split open on his back in his effort to clear it away. In _our_ effort to clear it away, Edwin, yours and mine with my own brother acting as our broom.”

There’s a small intake of breath from Lady Smallwood. Sir Edwin’s face purples, and his fists curl. “Didn’t realize you cared so much about your family, Mycroft. You were so willing to use them as tools for England’s safety.”

“I sought to give each of them a purpose while acquiring success for our ends, Edwin. In that, I erred.” Mycroft clenches the handle of his umbrella. “I won’t allow it to happen again.”

Mycroft turns to face the room, seeing the faces of Anthea, Irina, and Henri. They are tense and waiting. He thinks of Max, too large for a hospital bed and face gone grey with pain in sleep. He faces Sir Edwin again.

“Scotland Yard has picked up Peter Grayson, and they had Leander Harris in for questioning this morning.”

The whites of Sir Edwin’s eyes grow. “Grayson has nothing on me.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Anthea steps forward. “Nothing concrete, anyway. But I do. When I suspected foul play on your end, I was able to bug Mr. Grayson’s phone. I have this recording.” She held up her own phone, and hit play on the screen. 

_“ - the footage will loop successfully, and no one but Harris will know I was there.”_ It’s Peter Grayson’s voice.

 _“Harris knows better than to say anything.”_ The voice is high like a woman’s, and off-key. 

_“Sir?”_

_“Don’t forget the money you’ll be getting for all this, plus your early retirement. Remember, I haven’t killed anyone. You did that._ ”

Anthea hits pause. “Voice analysts will confirm that the voice is yours - using a scrambler.” Her eyes glitter. “Have no doubt.”

Lady Smallwood’s shakes her head. “What on earth -"

“Shut up, Elizabeth,” Mycroft says. “Be prepared for a new head of SIS. Sir Edwin is going to be arrested.”

The air is still, loaded - like a sky before lightning strikes, static and strange. The tableau is shattered when Edwin explodes into movement. He leaps over his desk toward Anthea, his hand sliding into the front of his jacket. There's a gun. Carbon black metal gleaming with smoke and slate and battleship grey highlights. 

_Fuck._ Mycroft whips out his umbrella and hooks the man’s arm with the handle. Edwin twists to keep his balance as one arm reaches to Anthea. Anthea ducks. Mycroft _yanks,_ yanks with all his might and hopes he might wrench Edwin’s arm from his shoulder. The gun sails through the air. 

Before Mycroft can move, Irina flashes into view. The gun lands with a _clatter_ on the wood floor. She flips Edwin to the ground with a loud _thud_ on the carpet. Edwin _grunts_ as the air is driven out from his lungs. Henri is beside her, zip ties in hand. 

Mycroft’s heart beats with a wild fervor. He holds his umbrella to his chest. He looks at Anthea. Her chest rises and falls like a bellows, but her face looks cool and almost smug as she stares down at the head of SIS. In fact, she’s glaring. Lady Smallwood stands with her hand over her mouth, her face as pale as the moon. 

Henri finishes with his zip ties and yanks Sir Edwin into sitting, who yelps and flinches as he moves. 

_I hope I broke his arm._ Mycroft moves closer to Anthea's side.

A loud knocking sounds at the door. 

“Ah. That’ll be Scotland Yard,” Mycroft says as he straightens his tie. “We’ve recorded our conversation here, and they’ve been listening in, so that’s Sir Edwin finished.” He gives Lady Smallwood a weighted look. She sinks into her chair. 

* * *

“I grow tired of all this, Elizabeth,” Mycroft says. He’s stands in her office, staring out the window onto the street below. It’s the ideal urban scene, historic buildings with tourists and Londoners alike milling about the cobblestone. “You and I have been involved in military intelligence for nearly all of our adult lives. We were blind to Vivian Norbury, blind to Edwin, held hostage by Magnussen, manipulated by Moriarty and Eurus.”

“Mistakes, to be sure.” Mycroft can see Elizabeth in the window’s reflection as she smooths out the wrinkles in the sleeves of her suit jacket. “It’s not the end of the world. Think of all the things we’ve prevented. We’ve done well.”

“Certainly. But we’re getting complacent, and with that, we’ve allowed a degree of slipshod planning and execution to occur.” Mycroft turns to look at her directly. “I knew Edwin would eventually turn on England to tend to his own pockets. The voting population’s viewpoints are changing, and you won’t hold your position forever.” 

“With your position between the Home Office and the Foreign Office -”

“I won’t make any promises. I will ensure that the next head of MI6 has a flawless background and a razor-sharp mind with high principles, but I won’t interfere with the elections of the free people of the United Kingdom.” 

“That’s a new tune you’re whistling.”

 _Bitch._ “Prior interference was regrettable.”

“Mycroft!” Elizabeth moves closer to him, and he can smell the floral notes of her perfume. “Mycroft, you’ve been compromised, and now you’re doubting yourself. That’s all this is. You’ll find your way through, and you and I -”

“We’ll what? Rule England as a shadow monarchy?”

“Sir Edwin, you, and I have always acted as each other's check-and-balance - what will you do if I’m voted out? Consolidate the power for yourself? Let the weight of ensuring England’s safety suffocate you? Endanger the work we’ve already accomplished? Mycroft, listen to yourself!”

“There was a time where our interference was considered necessary for the defense of England and the free world.” 

“And you think that that time has ended? You can’t just step away after two decades of personally manipulating policy and expect no repercussions!”

“We are making mistakes! When we were just agents, there was an old guard that tried to prevent us from enacting certain procedures that we knew would help bring security to first world countries. Now, we ignore new procedures at our peril. Elizabeth, we have become that old guard!” Mycroft had an urge to stomp his foot. _Maybe toss something against the wall_. “And we are making mistakes. We’ve headed off the worst scenarios that could have resulted from our mistakes, but it’s time we invited in new blood.”

“Is Anthea to take your place, then?”

“I am decentralizing my position in this establishment. In a way, you could say we share the position now.” Mycroft let out a sigh. “I am better for it, and I believe England will be as well.”

Elizabeth steps closer to him and lays a hand on his arm. “Mycroft. England can’t lose you. _I_ can’t lose you.”

“England won’t.” Her perfume invades his nose again. It’s pleasant enough, but her proximity is beginning to concern him. Her codename was Love for a reason. Her charms had never worked on him, though she’d thrown him for a loop now and again when she pretended interest. 

And that’s all it was. _Pretense._

He steps back. “Elizabeth. I am _gay._ ”

She frowns and her eyes turn flinty. “Mycroft, there’s no need to act like I’m trying to _seduce_ you.”

“You’re not trying to seduce me. You’re trying to distract me.” Mycroft walks across the room. “It won’t work. The world is changing. We must change with it, or ossify in place and become brittle and breakable while the scenery blows by. I will learn to be flexible instead of sclerotic. I hope you will, as well.”

Mycroft opens the door to the hallway. Henri and Anthea stand outside. Anthea smirks.

He rolls back his shoulders and tips his chin as he says, “Goodbye, Elizabeth. It’s truly been a privilege. I do hope we’ll have some years left together, if only to smooth the way for new ideas.” 

Anthea winks at him.

Mycroft walks out.

When he does, he feels as though a weight that pressed down upon on his shoulders has lifted.

Like wings lain closed for too long, now stretching skyward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's suggestion is [Did You Listen?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916044) by InnerSpectrum.


	8. Back to Blocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is still trying to figure out the composition of the objects in his life. It's not easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update. My precious dog of almost fifteen years died on Monday morning. Those of you who commented on Monday's update brought me moments of joy in what was an otherwise devastating day, so I thank you for that from the bottom of my heart. A very stressful situation cropped up at work on Tuesday and lingers still. My FIL flew in on Wednesday and we are hosting him for a week. My toddler is sick. It has been a very trying week, and I appreciate everyone's patience in waiting for updates. 
> 
> I am very grateful for the kudos and comments; they have been a balm on my weary heart.

> "Stars, hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires."
> 
> -William Shakespeare, _MacBeth_

It’s been far too cold to enjoy the rooftop terrace, but tonight he's chosen it as the setting for a phone call. He's come to think of the inside of his home as a place of solace. No one from his family has stepped inside. There are no frightening memories, and the aching sense of loneliness is subdued. He lights a cigarette, and dials a number.

The call connects. “Mikey, I don’t appreciate being ignored.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you, Mummy,” Mycroft says. “I was simply quite busy with work.”

“Too busy to pick up when your mummy calls?”

“Recently? Yes.”

She scoffs. “Did you see Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Mycroft takes a drag from the cigarette. “I saw him when I had his papers dropped off for the adoption.”

“Adoption?”

“Well, yes,” Mycroft’s stomach squeezes like a melon in a press. “You know of Doctor Watson’s daughter Rosie. Sherlock has officially been appointed as her second parent.”

There is a quiet, the kind of quiet that occurs in that stretch between the flash of lightning and the roll of thunder. Mycroft waits. He hears an intake of breath.

“Mycroft Holmes, you mean to tell me that Sherlock is a father now?” Her voice curdles with disappointment. 

“He is.”

“And you didn’t think this was important information to tell me? When did it happen?”

Mycroft takes another drag before he answer; the smoke tumbles in clouds from his mouth. “I assumed he’d called and told you, Mummy. It is a rather significant change in one’s life.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me. You know what your brother’s like. How could you do this to me?”

The wind is picking up. His hand feels as though it’s wrapped in ice, but he doesn’t stub the cigarette out and go inside. 

His mother sighs. “I can’t help but feel that I’m losing both my boys. Neither one of you really appreciates me, or wants to talk to me.”

Mycroft clenches his teeth. “Mummy -”

“No, no. It’s fine. You’ve finally given me back Eurus, so all’s well now, isn’t it?” The tone of her voice tells him that all isn’t well.

_Of course it isn't. It hasn't been for a long time._

“You’re not to be smoking. You’ll end up in an early grave. I don’t want to have to go through burying a child again.” The feeling of having his stomach squeezed changes to one of liquid despair seeping through his veins and invading the tissues of his body. He ran cold and hot at the same time, standing in the ice cold air, wind-whipped and weary. Shaking.

“Mummy, this has been a lovely chat, but I really must be going now.”

“Mikey, don’t forget that in two weeks it’s your sister’s birthday.”

Mycroft stubs the end of the cigarette into the ashtray he's brought with him. “I won’t, Mummy.”

She hangs up. 

Mycroft tries to light another cigarette, but the wind prevents him. He grips the lighter with one hand and lets the cigarette fall from his fingers. His thigh aches with his old injury. _I am Mycroft Holmes._

_And I am persona non grata in my family._

He has Anthea. He has Irina, Henri, Jean, and Max. _For a while, at least. Paid._

He rubs his face with his bare hand, fingers numb. _Greg._

 _Good Lord. I shouldn’t_ need _anyone._ He wings the lighter through the air, watches it glance against the terrace tiles and bounce right over the edge of the rooftop. 

Something hungry inside his rib cage yearns to see Canada again. Or, at the very least, feel the cold isolation of a far-off, wild place where no one sees him. This windy hideaway in the frigid temperatures of an early spring night is close, but before him are the bustling lights of the city he inhabits. Full of _people_. 

And somewhere, there is _Greg_.

He hears the door creak open behind him. “Mr. Holmes? Can I get you a warmer coat? You’re shivering.” Irina’s voice is kind but firm.

“It’s quite alright,” he says though his teeth chattering.

“I’ll keep you company.” He feels a pinch of guilt. 

“Irina, please, there’s no need.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

Mycroft lets out a shaky exhale. “The colors. They’re muted. When I was in Canada...everything was vibrant. Here, my head is so full of things, I don’t see the colors anymore. It all mixes together and creates mud.”

Irina doesn’t say anything. She just stands beside him and links her arm through his.

Mycroft’s jaw aches from the chattering. He's not even sure how long he's been doing it. “Let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here.”

Irina nods and walks with him into the warmth of the indoors. 

* * *

Mycroft brings him to his studio. They're drinking wine and Mycroft can almost pretend that it is merely a social visit. Doctor Hammond points to certain images and asks about them. Mycroft’s answers are frank. He’s committed himself to therapy, and has decided he will answer the psychiatrist’s questions without prevarication. 

Last time, they’d talked about his childhood, his parents, his uncle Rudy, and his start in military intelligence. This time, he tells him about Canada. How he’d absorbed himself in the landscape, the cold, and in painting to keep him from thinking too hard about his life. 

Doctor Hammond encourages him to continue painting. “Not for avoidance reasons, though, but it can assist in centering your mind and releasing stress.”

Mycroft manages to keep his eyes from rolling, but only barely. 

“Why Canada?” Doctor Hammond asks. 

“My first thought was Antartica,” Mycroft admits. “But, it was rather on the nose. Canada seemed...isolated. Only Anthea was to know of my whereabouts. I was...regrouping. I needed silence.”

“Why’d you bring your paints?” 

“I needed something to occupy my time.” Mycroft shrugs. 

“So, you said only Anthea was to know your whereabouts. What changed?”

Mycroft holds the glass of wine close to his chest. “She, along with Sherlock, determined that it might be best someone check up on me.” Before he knows it, he’s spilling with the details of Greg’s unexpected arrival, the subsequent snowstorm, and the argument they had. And then...he points to the paintings and sketches of the elk as he recounts the moment of his epiphany. _The snow, the elk, and the man who stood beside me._ He doesn’t tell the doctor about their kiss, or his conflicted romantic infatuation with him. _Weak._

“You know, I look at these,” he points to the series of elk. “And they’re different from your landscapes.”

“How so?” 

“Her face isn’t in them.”

Mycroft stiffens as a chill spiders down his back. “I thought...I thought I was imagining her face in them. That, it was something only my eyes could distinguish.”

Doctor Hammond nods. “It’s not a face with easily distinguishable features, but there’s something to them.” He rubs his bearded chin. “Where were your parents, Mycroft?” 

Mycroft frowns. _Greg asked me the same thing_. “They traveled quite a bit when we got older. Mummy gave up quite the career when she gave birth to me. It made her ill for some years after. Sherlock was a caesarean. Eurus nearly killed her, but they pulled her through.”

“And you were the one who most often minded them?”

“Yes,” Mycroft finds himself enveloped by a fog of memories - Eurus, squalling from a white bassinet. His mother missing from the room while a fair-skinned woman with large hands and red curls cooed over the baby, trying to comfort her. It was his sister’s first day in Musgrave Hall after a month’s stay in hospital, and their nanny was already at her wits’ end. Mycroft held a toddler-sized Sherlock on his right hip, all wide-eyed astonishment at the cries of the tiny babe. “She was born prematurely, and Sherlock...was a handful. I often helped the nannies, and when they were five and six, we no longer had nannies.”

“Hm.” The psychiatrist peers at Mycroft’s paintings with interest. Mycroft’s skin crawls to think someone might be deducing his weaknesses - _and isn’t that what is comes down to, that his own family is his greatest weakness_ \- from pigment and brushstrokes. 

“And him?” He points to Greg’s portrait. Mycroft doesn’t want Hammond’s eye upon the likeness of the man he covets, but there’s nothing to do about it now.

“He isn’t family.”

“Hm.” Doctor Hammond looks at the portrait, then around the room, and back at Mycroft. “But he’s important to you.”

Mycroft’s hand tightens on his glass as he considers pitching it at Hammond’s face. “Yes. I have...a certain regard for him. But, I am...compromised. I won’t allow us to begin any kind of - courtship...until I am a master of myself again.”

“A certain regard?”

“Yes.” Mycroft makes a moue of disdain. 

Doctor Hammond raises his eyebrows at this. “And you think he’ll wait around for you?”

Mycroft purses his lips as his heart blips with worry. “He swore it.”

Doctor Hammond hums, and Mycroft imagines smashing the glass in his face.

“Mycroft, is this the man you mentioned who joined you at the chalet?”

Mycroft licks his bottom lip. “He is that man.”

“So, he saw you at what is presumably your worst, and then he swore to wait for you to be a master of yourself again, as you put it?”

Mycroft sets his glass on the table as his hand quivers. “If you have something to say, Doctor, kindly get on with it.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. I’m simply curious. Here is a man that saw you in an ‘undesirable state’ as you put it to me, but accepted you anyway. Is apparently waiting for you to pull yourself together. You’ve established a new base camp in this lovely home, you’ve hired new staff, and you’ve warded off a potential disaster at work. What is it that plagues you still?”

Mycroft stares at the floor. It’s the same herringbone wood pattern as the downstairs, but up here he’s covered it with plastic. “I am not...sure of myself. These sensations in me...they are overwhelming at times, and there are times when I am unsuitably angry, and moments when I am simply unsure of myself.” He directs his gaze out the window, over the rooftops of Kensington flats like his own. “I am not used to the chaos.”

“Do you doubt your feelings for this man?”

Mycroft hates Hammond’s ability to cut to the root of an issue. He navigates the emotions of others like Mycroft navigates political intrigue and global policy. “I’m not...I don’t want to have these _feelings_. I hate the uncertainty. I hate having - nerves.” He twists his ring around its finger, the gold metal still dull and unpolished. “I’m anxious, and I’m kept up at night, and I - throw things when the anger becomes too much...and when I am with him I feel calm and I feel in control. And I hate that he makes me feel that way. I hate that I am so reliant on him.” He releases his finger and balls his hand into a fist. He grinds it into the table’s edge, scant inches from his glass of wine. “I shouldn’t be. I am my own man. I have made my life. I shouldn’t have to need someone just to feel...right.”

Mycroft’s eyes sting and he turns to face the wall before Doctor Hammond can see them. His hands drop to his sides.

“I can understand how that might be frightening to you.” His voice is low, cautious. 

Mycroft wants to insist that he’s not afraid. It’s not like that.

“You’ve never been able to depend on anyone in an emotional capacity, have you?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer.

“You’ve been taught that you can’t depend on anyone.” He hears the psychiatrist shift his stance, the wood floor creaking below him. “Mycroft, do you have friends?”

Mycroft stills. He thinks about Anthea, and then Irina and Henri and Jean and Max. He thinks about Guillaume and other sexual partners over the years. He thinks of Sherlock.

“I’ve had employees,” he says finally.

Doctor Hammond hums. “Friendship makes us vulnerable. But it also enriches our lives.”

Mycroft turns to glare at him. “Is that so? Please, what other greeting card wisdom have you to share?”

Doctor Hammond smiles at him, but the downturn of his eyes and the pull of the muscles around his lips make him look a little sad.

Mycroft scowls. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Then you shan’t have it. However, I’d like you to consider that you deserve friends. That, though it is a risk, people can care for you. And because they’re people, they will make mistakes and there will be misunderstandings and there will be hurt feelings, but mostly, it will be worth it. You’re a titan in your world. You’ve created a position for yourself that I’ve never even heard of, nor has the public, apparently. You’re a man of great stature who has performed epic feats under tremendous pressure. But you’re also a man like everyone else, and when your castle went crumbling, you didn’t have a support network in place to help catch you.”

Mycroft forces the air through his nostrils, and then pulls it back into his lungs with effort.

“Now, consider this man.” Doctor Hammond points to the portrait. “You couldn’t ask for better to start learning how to be friends with someone than by trying it out with a person who has seen you fall, and didn’t revel in it. Didn’t engage in an ounce of schadenfreude. Didn’t ignore it, either. But sought you out and offered to help you, and is waiting for you, even without the guarantee of your ever arriving.”

His eyes focus on the far wall. “Of course, no one waits forever.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes as his gut tightens. “Is this some kind of trick to get me to go to him?”

“It’s the truth.” Doctor Hammond shrugs and faces him. “You know, Mycroft, I realize you may find this suggestion insulting to that great big brain of yours, but have you considered medication?”

Mycroft had been reaching for his wine glass on the table, but he pauses, his fingers curling once more as his gut tightens.

“It wouldn’t be forever. Prescribed medication can help you to feel centered. It wouldn’t change who you are or affect your creativity. It can just make it all seem...less overwhelming. It gives you room to breathe. Then, when you’ve figured out your coping strategies, your self-care tools, we can taper the medication.”

Mycroft draws in a deep breath and rubs the side of his left temple. “I haven’t given it a thought.”

“It’s not a crutch, Mycroft.” Doctor Hammond says. “It’s a tool. A useful tool.”

“I have no interest in drugs.”

Doctor Hammond’s eyes haven’t left him. “Ah, yes, your brother? It’s not quite the same.”

“I know that, Doctor,” Mycroft snaps. He drops his hand to his hip. 

“I’m just saying. It’s not shameful to need a simple prescription that can stop your brain from overloading you.” He gestures back to the portrait in a dismissive flip of his hand. “Of course, it’s nice if a support network and self-care tools can do that for you, too. Not everyone’s that lucky in regards to brain chemistry. And not everyone has a person in their life that gives them a sense of center.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to tell a disturbed person to rest their emotional dependency on another person when people are entirely fallible?”

“I like how you put that,” He grins. “Not really. What I am telling you is to take a risk. This is how you build relationships. You have to make yourself vulnerable. If someone disappoints you, you have to deal with those emotional consequences. Ideally, you forgive them and move on, with them either in your life or out of it.” He shrugs. “Your choice. Your mental health is always your responsibility. But you can ease your burden with the help of others. I’m trying to encourage you to take that risk, and allow yourself to trust another person.”

“Next you’ll be reminding me that ‘no man is an island.’” Mycroft bites out.

“Well, no man is, but you don’t need me to tell you that,” Doctor Hammond smiles, and Mycroft pictures splashing his glass of wine across the man's face. 

* * *

Henri opens the door for him and begins to follow him to the building. 

Mycroft's face colors as his stomach churns with dread. “Oh, Henri, this is a private meeting. You may wait at the car.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Henri glances back at the car with an enigmatic smile on his face. “I cannot possibly go back to the car and face my wife without escorting you the entire way to the detective inspector’s flat.” His roguish looks belie the seriousness of his statement. 

“Ah, well, then, I wouldn’t wish to anger Irina.” Mycroft gives him a shaky nod and continues into the building, Henri keeping up with him on his long legs. 

Mycroft has made his decision. He finds himself alternating between hot and cold as he sweats inside his three-piece suit, but this can’t go on any longer. 

Soon enough, Mycroft knocks at Greg’s door. When it opens, his chest pops with unexpected feelings of elation and joy. Greg stands there and his face transforms to a pleased grin. “Mycroft? What a surprise!” He stands back, looking into his flat and running his hand through his hair. He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that hug his form in all the right places, and Mycroft can't help but notice the speed of his heart increasing. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Mycroft glances at Henri, gives a sharp nod, and walks in. Piles of folded and unfolded laundry are on the sofa. Mycroft notices a couple pairs of briefs on one pile and averts his eyes.

He turns to face Greg who is holding out one hand as if to touch Mycroft, but he drops it. “Can I get you a drink? Is everything alright?”

“No. No drink. And no. Everything is not all right.” Mycroft levels him with a glare. _Remember what it is that you came here to do._ He swallows. This is harder than he expected, now that he faces the source of his torment. His thoughts scatter. “Here I am dealing with matters of national security, and you are just…” This was not what he wanted to say. He gazes at the wall, searching his brain for some thread of composure.

“And I’m just what?” Greg tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

“You!” Mycroft knows he’s making little sense. “You are just you, and you drive me crazy.” _You sound crazy. Pull yourself together, man!_

Greg seems like he might want to smile. “Is that a good kind of crazy or…”

“No.” Mycroft shakes his head. _Don't derail._ “No. It isn’t. I shouldn’t think of you the way I do. I don’t need you. I don’t want you.”

He sees the hurt flicker over the other man’s face. _Yes_ , he thinks. “You are nothing to me. You’re a police officer who can’t hold his own at work without the help of a junkie. You’ve been passed over for promotion twice. You’re not good enough to lick the soles of these expensive patent leather shoes I’m wearing.”

Greg’s face changes once more. His jaw sets and his eyes are two points of burning light, wet umber glistening against white. He squares his shoulders. His voice is rough and predatory when he speaks. “Mycroft Holmes, I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but I won’t stand here and take this abuse from you. Get out. Get away from me if you feel that way.”

“I do! I do feel that way!” Mycroft’s tongue feels heavy but the words crack out like a whip. “I don’t need you!”

“You’ve made that clear,” Greg growls. “So get the fuck out of my flat.”

Mycroft stands tall. _Here, here are your true colors._ “Thought so. You said you’d wait. But you won’t. You’re not dependable. No one is. So to hell with you for pretending that you care.”

“I don’t know what’s got into you, but enough. I actually do want to be there for you, but not if you’ll behave like this. Get out, now.”

“With pleasure.” Mycroft has proven his point. He can leave now, call Hammond, and cancel his next appointment. He’s free. _I_ _don’t need anyone._

He strides to the door, but not before he sees Greg turn away with his eyes closed and his lower lip between his teeth. Greg lowers his head, and Mycroft feels a tight twist in his solar plexus. He grinds his teeth, opens the door, and steps into the hall.

Henri stands there, his soft brown eyes meeting Mycroft’s. He ducks his chin. In that instant, Mycroft realizes that he heard the shouting. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. 

It’s only him and his bodyguard. The man whose father he saved once. This man is disappointed in him. 

_I didn’t recognize it for what it was._

_I said unbelievable things to Henri._

Oh God. Irina.

_Hurtful things._

He’ll tell Irina. And Irina will know that Mycroft forgot everything she's told him.

_It is what it is, Mr. Holmes. And it is in the past. I can’t let it rule my future. It might steal what happiness I could have._

“What have I done?” He whispers.

Henri looks at him, and then down at the floor. “If you’re asking me for advice, Mr. Holmes, an apology is not of out of order here.” He looks Mycroft in the face. “I’m told he’s a good man. A worthy man.”

 _You’re worthy of a thousand paintings._ For just a second he’s standing in the makeshift studio of the Candian chalet, a sense of epiphany burbling through his chest like light dancing across the ripples of water. 

Mycroft draws a breath. He turns. Knocks on the door. Shaking.

When it flies open, Greg frowns to see him. Something in Mycroft’s face must make him hesitate, because while his jaw is set and his eyes blaze, he manages to say, “What?” instead of slamming the door shut. 

“Greg,” Mycroft’s voice cracks. He swallows around the lump of shame in his throat. He can feel Henri’s presence at his back. “I -... _please._ ” He swallows again, hoping Greg won’t make him beg, even as his eyes beseech him. “Please _._ ”

Greg stands back as he holds the door open. He gestures for Mycroft to step in with one perfect, tanned hand.

Mycroft walks in, shaky and aware any wrong step might end with him falling to the floor. He hears Greg close the door. He turns.

Greg stands there with his arms folded. His face is hard. He vibrates with fury. 

_I must tell him. God, I must tell him._ “I-I go to sleep, and my last thoughts are of you. I get a sandwich for lunch, and I wonder if you’d appreciate its flavor. I hear a joke, and I think I’d like to share it with you.” 

Greg is listening. His entire body is tense, but Mycroft has his attention. 

“I can’t help but crave you, and I hate that. I want you as far away as possible, but I am desperate for you.” His fists tremble. He stares at the beige carpet on Greg’s floor. “It is not an emotional state that I am accustomed to.” He clears his throat as he meets Greg’s eyes. “I despise it with the very same fervor with which I wish to embrace it.”

Greg’s breathing is heavy and his mouth is a flat horizon. He looks away from Mycroft, his chin low to his chest and his eyes shuttered. “You know, it’s like that for me, too. Not the...despising it. Not the hating it. I think about you a lot, like when I watch the telly, I wonder what you might say about the plot. I think about cooking you dinner, and I want to take you out on a date. A real, proper date. And thinking about those things makes me excited.”

He stares at his arms crossed over his chest. “And I get scared, too. I think, I’m not good enough for you. We’re not from the same sort of people. You’re bloody brilliant and I know how Sherlock gets when he’s around people dumber than he is. I worry you’ll be the same, that I won’t be smart enough for you.”

He levels his gaze at Mycroft. “The difference between you and me though? I don’t let my fear get the best of me.” His earth-brown eyes are steady and strike Mycroft with a sense of self-assurance he misses. 

He releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He clenches his fists and releases them, too. He looks away, unable to look Greg in the eye. _When did I become such a mess?_

“Why don’t we sit down and have some tea?” Greg’s voice is soft, now, and his words cause Mycroft’s last wall to crumble.

He covers his face with his hands. “I’m a broken man. I’m broken. I can’t possibly be what you need, but I want to be what you want.” Strong arms enfold him. The very arms he’d been yearning for. Greg’s cologne is in his nostrils and the heat of his body is pressed to Mycroft’s. Greg lowers him to the ground as his legs begin to falter. He leans into Greg. “I’m not worth it. This can’t be worth it to you.” His face is wet and he can't stop the noises that swell up from his chest. It's a full minute before he recovers and quiets.

Greg hushes him, and strokes his hair. “You’re an idiot, Mycroft Holmes. I’m an adult and I get to decide those things for m’self.”

Mycroft feels the press of lips against his temple. He uncovers his face to clutch at Greg’s sleeves. “I am an idiot.”

Greg huffs a laugh. Then says, “Listen. I get that you’re scared. It’s okay. Just...don’t come at me like that. The things you said…”

“Aren’t true. They aren’t true,” Mycroft clasps at Greg’s shoulders and brings their faces level with one another. “I said those things to push you away. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Greg’s eyes are searching his own. “But I’m only human, Mycroft. Keep pushing me, and it’ll work one day. I’ll go and I won’t want to hear from you again.”

The thought tears at Mycroft’s insides. “I don’t know how to do this.” 

“Then follow my lead. I’m not perfect, but I have an idea of how this goes. We’ll do our best.” He pulls Mycroft close. “Together, ‘k?”

Mycroft nods, holding tight to Greg. He buries his face into Greg’s collar and inhales the scent of the man. Mint gum, mid-level cologne, and a faint hint of cigarette smoke. His nerves sing with lust, but he refrains from planting his mouth on the side of Greg’s neck. He’s not sure if the move would be welcome. While they had held one another at the chalet, and they’d kissed, there was nothing further. 

Greg nuzzles the side of his head, and Mycroft feels a kiss on his ear. He leans back just enough so they’re breathing in the same space, their foreheads and temples still pressed together and their mouths angled just out of reach of each other’s. 

Greg tilts his head and moves forward to capture Mycroft’s lips. The kiss is hot and wet and Mycroft feels like he’s entered a sauna as a flush of heat overcomes him. They cling to one another, tongues tangling, until Greg pulls back to suck on Mycroft’s lower lip. Mycroft moans as the sensation trips down his spine, a pool of molten heat in his gut. There’s a scrape of teeth as Greg lets Mycroft’s lip go. They dive back together, pushing the kissing deeper as they explore one another’s mouths. 

It's freedom, it's relief, it's happiness zig-zagging all through Mycroft's mind and zipping through his body.

Mycroft loses track of time as they run their hands over each other, licking at one another and moaning in pleasure together. Greg stops them, keeping Mycroft’s forehead pressed to his with his hand cupped on the back of his head. “Mycroft, I don’t want to rush this.”

Mycroft tries not to groan with disappointment. 

“I mean, we said we wouldn’t start anything until you’d settled things with work. I just...I want to make sure that you’re ready. That you’re really ready. I don’t want to do this just because emotions are running high and we’ve just had an argument.”

“You are ridiculously cognizant and composed,” Mycroft says with a slight huff.

“Believe me, I’m hating myself for trying to be responsible right now.” Greg cups his cheek. “But I want to get this right. I have a feeling about me and you. A good feeling.”

Mycroft sighs. “I want to be responsible for your good feelings.”

“You’re getting there,” Greg grins. Mycroft could melt at the sight of that grin.

“Give me just a little more time. I feel it won’t be long, now.” Mycroft runs his fingers through Greg’s pewter colored hair. “I know to paint your hair I would need raw umber with ultramarine blue and a bit of mars black. It’s fast becoming my favorite combination of colors.”

Greg kisses his palm, and then gently on his wrist. “I’ll sit for you one day. ‘K?”

Mycroft feels a bloom of warmth across his cheeks. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

They kiss each other again. Greg helps him up from the floor to the sound of creaky joints and some shared laughter over those creaky joints.

When Mycroft enters the hallway again, Henri gives him a soft smile and a knowing look. Mycroft ducks his head. “Thank you for your advice, Henri.”

Henri shrugs one shoulder. “Love is worth saying you’re sorry.”

Mycroft lets out a puff of laughter. _It’s a wonder that I have been so ignorant_. 

“I never knew. I never knew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my very favorite post-Sherrinford fics is [The Habits of a Lifetime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10203620) by out_there. If you've not had a chance to read this fic, definitely make time for it.


	9. Laying in Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, rising from the ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got such amazing comments on the last chapter. Y'all are wonderful people. Thank you so, so much for your kind words.
> 
> I have to be honest. The following is probably my favorite chapter. I would really love to hear your thoughts.

> There’s a niche in his chest  
>  where a heart would fit perfectly  
>  and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place—  
>  well then, game over.
> 
> -Richard Siken, _Crush_

Standing by the little waterfalls in the Kyoto Garden of Holland Park, Mycroft can’t help but compare it to immense mountainsides layered with snow and pine. Elk dotting the landscape below a rolling fog colored yellowish and orange with morning sunshine. The _snort_ of a nearby bull elk and the _crunch_ of snow beneath heavy hooves. 

Here, the peacocks ring out with their spine-tingling cries as the falls blanket the air with continuous white noise. The pond reflects an array of crimson Japanese maples, the blushing blossoms of cherry trees, and the weathered stone of Japanese-style lanterns. The afternoon sun casts everything in a warm glow. It’s spring, and Mycroft doesn’t think he’s ever seen spring so clearly. 

Doctor Hammond stands beside him, a forest green, reusable coffee cup in hand. He’s looking out onto the same scenery as Mycroft, and he exudes a sense of peace and patience. Mycroft envies him this.

“When the elk stepped from the fog, and I first realized we were too close, that the bull could quite likely charge, I didn’t feel a moment of panic.” He looks down at the water. Below the surface, he can see the flick of the golden and white fins of the koi. “I think I might have welcomed death at the time.”

Doctor Hammond hums, but doesn’t comment. 

“Then...I thought what if the animal went for Greg? That’s when I felt panic.” He enunciates every syllable - the ‘f’ and ‘i’ and ‘t’ made salient, and the ‘c’ in 'panic' sharp and cutting. “It was the first emotion I was really aware of having during that time in Canada. I then realized that I care for him.” 

“You realized a lot more in that moment, too,” Hammond says.

“Yes.” His epiphany. His moment of capturing light. “I tried to hold on to that sensation. It was - cathartic.” He’d grasped at the peace he felt inside and outside that chalet in Canada, in the days following the encounter with the elk. “I still find it strange that it was some shaggy ungulate in the wilds of Canada that brought me to it.” 

“It’s inherent within the majesty of nature. It tends to make one feel small, but also connected.” Doctor Hammond shrugs. “You can define it how you want. Make life meaningful.”

“Mm.” Mycroft folds his hands behind his back. He watches ripples from the questing mouths of the fish at the surface. “I am to visit my parents tomorrow at 221B.”

He doesn’t quite catch the look that shadows Doctor Hammond’s face before it clears. “What’s the occasion?”

“It is my sister’s birthday. There are plans to visit her at Sherrinford.”

“Do you still dream about it?”

“Less and less, I find.” It’s true. He wakes in a sweat sometimes, but no longer screaming, and the dreams are amorphous, ghosting figures and muted sounds and colors. 

Doctor Hammond obviously has opinions about the potential visit. He rubs his chin and stares off into the distance. Mycroft waits.

Finally, he says, “What do you want to do?”

Mycroft sighs. “Mummy will be cross if I decide not to go. She hasn’t quite forgiven me for Eurus.” _Or for being born, most likely._ “I’ve betrayed her again.”

“Again?”

“She’s my mother,” Mycroft says. “She had great hopes for me, and I’ve failed her multiple times. If I...if I do what I want, she will see it as another act of betrayal.” His fingers rub together behind his back, where Hammond can’t see them. “I’ve always wanted her to be proud. Of me. It’s a relentless, pathetic urge that I can’t seem to tame.”

“That’s about par for most human beings. And mothers can reign supreme when it comes to guilt.” Doctor Hammond seems to chew the inside of his cheek as he regards Mycroft.

His heart flutters as he tries to parse what the psychiatrist might be thinking. He can’t stop himself from asking, “What is it?” 

“I think I should remind you that you were never responsible for the deception. That was your uncle. You were groomed, Mycroft.”

“But to say I had no fault - “

“I’ve asked you this before. I’m going to ask you again. Where were your parents?”

He stiffens. Doctor Hammond is thinking of a specific time, and Mycroft isn’t sure he wants to hear it. “When?” _When your nannies left. When your sister tortured your brother. When Victor was drowned._

“When Musgrave Hall burned down.”

Bile gathers in Mycroft’s throat. “They were traveling.”

“And what did you do?”

“I took Sherlock out of the house.” _Flames. Heat. Eurus singing._

“Where was Eurus?”

“She wasn’t in her room. She was already outside.” _Loup, y es-tu? Wolf, are you here?_

“And who called for the fire fighters?” 

“One of the servants.” Mycroft’s heart crashes in his ears. They’re standing outside on a bright day, but he’s stuck in a memory of that night, dark and cold with Sherlock clinging to him while somewhere in the blackness the smallest Holmes child sang. 

“Where was your nanny?”

“We didn’t have one at the time.” _Breathe. Breathe._

“And who called your Uncle Rudy?”

Mycroft swallows but it’s like trying to push a boulder down his throat. “I did. At the neighbor’s.”

“You didn’t call your parents?”

Mycroft stares at the water. The fish are swimming in circles, no longer begging at the surface. He focuses on their movement, the flash of fin and the slip of color below the glass-like surface of the water. He is here, present. “My parents...were not reliable.”

“Right.” Doctor Hammond places a hand on one hip.

Mycroft quivers with a cold anger and rips his gaze from the pond. “How dare -? Just -” He swallows and tries again. “What is your point?” He glares at the man. 

“Mycroft,” Doctor Hammond’s expression isn’t pitying or kind. It’s frank, and piercing, like what he’s about to say is the most important thing in the world. “What happened when you were children was not your fault. Continuing the deception once your uncle passed? Debatable. Because you see, blame is a messy thing. It’s never as clean-cut as we’d like.” His eyes soften. “And, listen to me. Remember this. An abuser will always act like they’ve been betrayed, like they’ve been victimized, when the object of their abuse begins to stand up for themselves.”

Mycroft’s lungs seem to shrink and his vision narrows. He almost doesn’t register the words Doctor Hammond says next. 

“Neglect, Mycroft, is a form of abuse, and it has shaped you in ways in which you may not even be aware. It has irreparably shaped you.”

 _Irreparably._ The negative space is the area void of solid objects, of liquids, and of visible gases. Molecules have room, can bounce unseen in a chaotic frenzy. It’s the gap between the arm and the oblique side of the body, the cavity in the tooth, the aperture of the mouth, the interstice between chin and chest. _By shaping the negative, the form is revealed._

Another voice tells him, _the negative space is where the light can filter through._

“But you’re at an age where you can continue building on those shapes. You just have to decide what you want, and how to move forward.” The psychiatrist closes both his hands around his coffee cup. “Will you draw boundaries with those who would use or abuse you? Will you invite in those who would uplift you and accept you? Only you can decide for yourself.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Mmm. Always love a little Irish whisky in my coffee.”

Mycroft’s eyes bug. “Are you seriously giving me psychiatric advice while imbibing alcohol?”

“That snapped you out of it.” His eyes twinkle as he smirks. Then he sobers. “Listen, it’s serious. This is serious stuff we talk about. But it helps to have a sense of humor, okay?” He points his coffee at Mycroft. “You’ve got some decision making ahead of you, but it isn’t the end of the world. And your decisions may not always be the right ones, but that’s part of being human.”

 _Not for me._ It’s an ingrained thought, and Mycroft wonders where it came from.

“You’re already questioning what I’m saying and what you’re thinking. That’s good. Someone once told me the Buddha was asked whether he could prove the truth of his teachings. He said the teachings are an investigation of the mind, so everyone could ascertain the truth of his teachings for themselves. It’s not just based on faith. It’s based on personal experience upon application of his teachings.”

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. “Are you comparing yourself to the Buddha?”

Doctor Hammond laughed. “I’m a bit too attached to the pleasures of life.”

Mycroft nods, looking out over the greenery - and crimson and magenta leaves, and the brown-gray stones, and the pale pinks and whites of blossoms. He thinks of cotton-candy sunsets over snow with lavender shadows punctuated by dark olive pines. The light, always changing, the shadows lengthening and shortening with the day. The moon reflecting the sun’s light and the pthalo blue of the midnight sky. These things are simultaneously long-lived and fleeting. 

His sense of epiphany floats in and out of his grasp in a dance. It’s like trying to trap light with your hands. The moment you close your fingers over your palms, you’ve lost it. 

_But_ , thinks Mycroft, _you can cradle light if you remain open._

* * *

Mycroft enters 221B alone. Anthea waits in the car outside with Jean and Henri. He resists straightening the door knocker. 

Sherlock stands by the window. His discerning eyes skitter over Mycroft and linger for an extra second on his beard. “You’ve finally cracked.” His voice punctures the air. 

“I’ve finally seen.” Mycroft smiles. “Good to see you, brother mine.”

Sherlock stares at him with suspicion. His mother stands in the kitchen as his father enters from the bathroom. He gives Mycroft a nod and a smile in greeting. 

“Mycroft, what is that thing on your face?” Mummy snaps her fingers in his direction. He hasn’t seen her in six months. Her face is still the sharp, forbidding mix of planes and angles. Sherlock looked the most like their parents, while Mycroft resembled Uncle Rudy. 

“You know perfectly well that it is a beard.”

She tuts with a shake of her chin. “Holmes men are clean shaven.” 

“Not this Holmes,” he continues to smile as he balances on the balls of his feet, tipping upward and back down. He’s aware of Sherlock taking a book from the bookshelf and pretending to read, all while observing the interaction between himself and Mummy. 

“Mikey,” she says in her most exasperated tone. “Beards are unclean. Shave it off at once.” He can smell the lilac of her perfume from across the room. It reminds him of being very young, when she had allowed him to hug her, and he could inhale her perfume at will. _Until Sherlock was born._

“No.” He doesn’t bother to correct her about his name. 

She frowns at him, and he feels the discomfort begin to curl in his belly. While in the past he has been petulant with purpose around her - _like Christmas with the Watsons_ \- with no audience to impress, she’s thrown off guard. She’s dropped her English country mum facade, and speaks as if giving an edict. “Don’t be difficult. Take that dirty thing off your face and then we’ll have lunch before we’re off to see your sister.”

“I must decline.” Mycroft means to everything - the removal of the beard, the invitation to lunch, and the visit to Eurus. His mother doesn’t realize it.

Her nostrils flare, and she tips her chin up. “Suit yourself, but it makes you look beastly.” She turns from him and begins putting out plates with jerky movements and they _clink_ against the surface of the table.

 _Not finished, yet._ “None for me, Mummy. I must return to work.”

“What?” Her eyes flash and her tone is controlled and cold. She keeps one hand on the door of the cabinet as she looks at him. “Mycroft Holmes. It’s your sister’s birthday. We’re eating lunch as a family and then we’re seeing her as a family.”

 _She can hardly say her name_. He says, “Before I relinquished my charge of her, I arranged a monthly escort for you and father. Sherlock has his own arrangement though he may attend with you if he wishes. I have said my goodbyes to Eurus. I am no longer welcome at Sherrinford.” _And I am glad for it._

“No longer - what do you mean?” She _slams_ the cupboard shut and squares her body to his. “A brother can’t see his sister?”

“I don’t wish to,” Mycroft states.

Mummy’s eyes widen. Her mouth thins. Sherlock watches both of them through his lashes, still bent over the book. His father looks nervous, and steps away from his wife.

“I honestly don’t know what has gotten into you. You didn’t come for Christmas.” She takes in a sharp inhale and continues. “You lie to us for decades, you imprison your sister without the help she needs, you alienate yourself from us and your brother -” she pauses as she takes a breath, “When are you going to grow up and face what you’ve done to this family? When will you make it up to us, to me?”

Mycroft inhales, holds his breath for a count of three, and exhales. His mother, standing at her full height with her hands on her hips, watches him with an expectant glower.

“I know I am a disappointment,” he says. He pauses. This is it. His mother is likely to never understand, and it’s not his responsibility to bring her to a point of understanding. He cannot change who she is, and he cannot change her mind. Her pregnancy with him was unplanned, an accident that cost her her career. He will never measure up to her expectations. Of course, it’s likely there are other complicating factors, because life isn’t simple. 

_The elk, the snow, and the man who stood beside him..._

But maybe the response to life can be simple.

“I love you, Mummy.”

Everyone startles as if kicked. Sherlock drops his book with a loud _thud_ on the floor.

Mycroft ignores it. “But I will never make you happy. It’s fine. We expect different things in life. You are the woman who gave birth to me, and I know you’ve done the best you could with what you’ve been given. I am grateful to you for that.”

Mycroft places his umbrella over one arm as he steadies himself. His mother gapes. Sherlock stares, standing straight backed by the bookcase, so still that with his pale skin he appears as marble. Father’s lips have parted and his eyes are wide.

He thinks of the small boy with sticky fingers pasting cut-out shapes onto construction paper. He remembers watching her throw his offerings into the rubbish bin.

He doesn’t say any of this. It doesn’t matter to her, but he can make it up to himself. “I hope your visit goes smoothly. Enjoy your lunch. Goodbye.”

He leaves, his heart throbbing, and no one stops him.

* * *

In the car, he can’t stop shaking. He holds the umbrella between his knees, tip dug into the carpet of the vehicle’s floor. Anthea watches him from her side of the car. 

He blows out a breath. “Sometimes, I feel like I might split down the middle, or vibrate right out of my skin. Sometimes, my stomach hurts so much I think I might expel its contents.”

Anthea slides over in her seat and places her hands, warm and soft, over his atop the handle of the umbrella. He jerks at her touch, but then he holds himself still in her grasp. “We’re primates, sir,” Anthea says and smiles. “Touch can sometimes help.” 

Mycroft snorts. _The elk._ All that base instinct propelling it to an essentially meaningless life. “I should be above it.”

“It’s not healthy to think yourself above it,” Anthea murmurs, and squeezes his hands. 

“I don’t know who I am without my work,” the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. “And my family...I won’t let it be the same with them, anymore. I’ve drawn the line.” The shaking is little more than a quiver, now. 

Anthea’s brows crease with worry. She turns her face away as if in thought, then faces him again. “With family, sometimes you have to keep drawing and redrawing the line.”

Mycroft studies her. The clear blue of her eyes and the gentle frown lines of her face. Anthea doesn’t ask for time off for family reasons. There’s been the occasional wedding of a friend, a short vacation here and there, but nothing to suggest she is close to her parents who he knows reside in Liverpool. 

He says, “In John Logan’s play _Red_ , the assistant Ken asks the painter Rothko how does he know when a painting’s done. And Rothko answers, ‘When there is tragedy in every brushstroke.’” 

Anthea stares with a questioning look. Then her face clears, and she nods. “So, you don’t pick up the brush.”

Mycroft returns her nod. “You don’t pick up the brush.”

She squeezes his hands again. He’s no longer trembling. She releases him, and leans back in her seat. Their knees almost touch. 

He picks at his sleeve. “I don't wish to pressure you, but I feel I must ask. Are we - friends?”

Anthea regards him with a quirked lip. “You’re lucky I know that you’re an idiot about these kinds of things, or I’d be insulted.”

Mycroft lets his breath out in a laugh. It feels so _good_. He’s done something tremendous, and this intelligent, dedicated woman who has been at his side for years and knows intimate details of his personal life and of his work, knows exactly what to say, and how to make him laugh.

_Like a friend._

Anthea smiles. She checks her phone. “Max has been moved back home. Jean is very happy to have him back.”

“As we all are,” he grins, thinking of Irina and Henri making casseroles and quiches for the men’s fridge next door. Their little family is whole once again. “And, if my mother should call…” His stomach flips as he mulls over his options. 

“Sir?”

“If my mother should call, please let her know that I shall call her on Sundays and not otherwise, barring a medical emergency.”

“With pleasure, sir.” 

He rolls back his shoulders and peers out the window. The car stops at their destination. 

Anthea’s face glows as she says, “Go get ‘im, tiger.”

* * *

Greg waits for them inside Holland Park. Behind Mycroft, Irina and Henri walk hand in hand, looking for all the world like the average couple enjoying a sunny day in the park instead of a crackshot security team. 

Greg is wearing a leather bomber jacket, raw denim jeans, and grey merino wool sneakers that match the shade of silver in his hair. _Exquisite_. His hair is spiked up just a bit, and the twinkle in his eyes and the smirk on his mouth trigger flutters in Mycroft’s stomach followed by a grin on his face.

Greg grins back, all square white teeth. _Canescent_ , Mycroft thinks again. “I’m glad you called me,” Greg says. “I could use a walk outside today.”

He’s showered recently, but earlier in his day he dealt with a stressful situation - barely there shadows beneath his eyes and a crease in his forehead. Sherlock is with his parents so the source of whatever tangled problem he’s left isn’t directly connected to his younger brother.

Mycroft halts the stream of deductions. He wants to enjoy the man as he presents himself to Mycroft. He wants to savor these moments as they are, and not let his brain go running off into the past or any possible futures. _This moment now. By paying attention to these moments now, the shapes of this life are revealed._

Greg glances at Mycroft’s security team. 

“They’ll follow at a respectable distance, of course. Discreetly.” Mycroft beams at Greg, feeling whole once again - and just about okay with the fact that this is the effect Greg has on him.

“I haven’t met these two,” Greg says, still smiling. “Though I think he’s the guy from the hallway of my flat.”

“When we head back for the car, I’ll introduce you.” They fall into step with one another as Mycroft subtly directs them toward the Kyoto Garden. 

Greg glances at him, and Mycroft feels the blood move to his cheeks. He trimmed his beard and combed his hair, but he didn’t put too much product in it, and he knows the foremost curl is likely making an appearance.

“You look really good,” Greg says.

Mycroft casts him an appreciative gaze. “As do you.”

Greg winks. “Well, I had the feeling this might be a momentous occasion today.”

Mycroft smirks at him. “Indeed?”

“Well,” Greg shrugs. “I am a detective, after all.”

Mycroft chuckles. “I’d like to walk to the Kyoto Garden, and talk with you there.”

“Alright.” 

The air is a little warm for the time of spring, but neither man seems bothered by it. Mycroft in his jacket and waistcoat, Greg in his leather. Mycroft’s stomach tumbles like moths around a porchlight.

At the pond, a little way from where Mycroft had stood with his psychiatrist, Greg stops to face him. He looks a little nervous, his eyes shifting around, and his cheeks flushing, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Mycroft decides it's time.

“I’ve...been seeing a psychiatrist. Secretly.” Mycroft clears his throat and looks out over the water. “I’ve largely considered myself above matters of the heart. I’ve held reason and logic as paramount above all emotions.”

In the mirror surface of the pond, he sees an elk standing in snow and morning fog. “When you came to me in Canada, you saw something...a man whose entire world was upended and shattered. A shattered person. And I have spent since then picking up the pieces and moving them into place. I’ve been feeling like the negative. In that, I am the negative space. And no one sees me.”

He holds Greg’s gaze then. “But now, I understand that you see me. And you...accept me.” He smiles. “You even like me.”

Greg looks down at his shoes, and then back up at Mycroft. “Yeah. I do.”

“I don’t understand it. But I know that I like it. And, in creating this new negative space, this composition of my life, I have been deciding on where the objects go - whether that is closer in relation to me, or further away.” Mycroft takes in a deep breath as he straightens to his full height, looking over the falls. “Not too long ago, I sent an old acquaintance to prison. I told another acquaintance in no uncertain terms where I thought they stood. I’ve built a network of people who I can almost call friends, except that I pay them for their services.” He laughs a little at this. “I have given Sherlock the distance he has always asked for. And I’ve drawn boundaries with a person in my life who has brought more damage to myself and my siblings than anyone else.”

The smile slips from Greg’s face as concern replaces it. 

“And I’m not even talking about Eurus,” and Mycroft laughs at this, because really, what can you do at this point, but laugh and move forward?

“Meanwhile, I’ve kept you at the edge of this picture I’ve been forming.” Mycroft licks his lips and gazes at Greg. “I’d like to invite you in, now, in a prominent place close to mine.”

Greg licks his own lips, and looks down at the ground, a smile and a flush creeping across his face. “I don’t know how you do it, Mycroft. You get me all twisted up in knots, and then you say something like this, and I feel like I’ve melted away.” He steps closer. Mycroft’s nerves flash with heat. “Can I kiss you?” Greg’s voice is low and husky.

“I’d like that very much,” Mycroft’s voice trembles, his body leaning toward Greg’s like a magnet finding its opposite pole. Their mouths come together in a rush of heady relief, like a dam bursting with crashing floodwaters. Mycroft feels Greg’s arms close around him and he is buoyed along the rushing streams of dopamine and oxytocin. The fog, the murkiness of his vision and the muddled paint colors turn vivid and bright. 

When they part, they hear catcalls and whistles.

From none other than Henri and Irina who are watching them with wide smiles and sparkling eyes. 

Mycroft tries to muster up a feeling of indignation, but it simply isn’t there. 

He turns to Greg, their hands finding one another and holding on tightly. “Will you join me for dinner on Friday?”

“I’d love to.” Greg grins at him, his eyes bright. 

"I shall text you a time and place, if that suits."

"Suits me fine."

Mycroft's heart swells, and the cavity of his chest can't seem to contain it. He clears his throat as he tries to quell the jubilant thrill quaking through his body. “Let me introduce you to Henri and Irina Denault.”

Mycroft offers his arm, and Greg takes it. They walk, linked, toward the French couple awaiting them, resplendent in sunshine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's post-Sherrinford recommendation is [Darkest Before Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826815/chapters/46947487) by Antheas_Blackberry and Lavender_and_Vanilla. 
> 
> I'm also subcribed to these WIPs that you may enjoy:  
> [Mycroft Quits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208215/chapters/45665437) by BrynTWedge  
> [From Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15691263/chapters/36460983) by green_violin_bow


	10. Final Product

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft begins to learn the shape of his new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you, to everyone reading this.

> "I will love the light, for it shows me the way.
> 
> I will endure the darkness, for it shows me the stars."
> 
> -Og Mandino

The front door opens with a _bang._ Mycroft had been seated in his chair by the fireplace. He turns to see a red-faced Sherlock being manhandled through the doorframe by Jean-Michel. Henri stands off to one side, trying but failing to hide his smile. 

“Found this one lurking by the elevator of the underground lot,” Jean says. He winks at Mycroft. “Claims to be your brother, but I don’t see much of a family resemblance.”

“Unhand me,” Sherlock says through clenched teeth. His curls bob about in disarray, and his cheeks are flushed. 

His staff know perfectly well that this is his brother. They also had instructions to make it difficult for Sherlock to gain entry. 

“Yes, thank you; you may release him.” Mycroft waves with his hand and closes his book. “Sherlock, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, _this_ is Sherlock,” Jean says as he lets him go, and then brushes his hands on his pants as if Sherlock were a piece of rubbish. Sherlock shakes his shoulders, smooths his hands over the lapel of his coat, and sweeps into the room. Even in this large, airy open floor plan, his brother’s tendencies towards the dramatics seems to steal space. 

“Anthea is on the warpath, as it were.” Sherlock says without preamble.  
  
“She is very capable,” Mycroft says.  
  
“She’s a nuisance. She takes after you.” Sherlock flops down in the chair opposite Mycroft. He peers around. “Why did you leave our parents’ home?”  
  
He shrugs. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”  
  
Sherlock leans forward, pinning Mycroft with his stare. “Anthea came by Baker Street with copies of the agreement. She made John nervous. She pulled me aside and proceeded to provide me with parameters regarding how a person should treat a friend.”  
  
“She is a wonder, isn’t she.” Mycroft beams at Sherlock.  
  
“You didn’t send her.”  
  
“No.” Mycroft drops the book on the side table and takes out his mobile. He pretends to check his messages while watching Sherlock in his periphery. He opens the menu to a nearby Chinese establishment.  
  
Sherlock’s face twists into a moue of disgust. “Then why does she care?”  
  
Mycroft stops what he’s doing. Why does she care?  
  
_Oh._  
  
“She cares for me, Sherlock. And I, for her. And when a person cares for another person, they do what they can to ease their suffering.”  
  
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Caring is not an advantage, you said.”  
  
“I think you and I both know why I said that.” Mycroft’s eyes drill into Sherlock’s.  
  
Sherlock leans back in his chair and lets his eyes wander around the room. “It’s easier to not care.” His eyes fall on Irina’s knitting bag on the floor by the far end of the sofa. It’s her favorite place to sit and work while by the fire in the evenings.  
  
“Is it?” Mycroft asks as Sherlock moves to the sofa and fishes out one of her needles. He balances the needle on one finger, midway down the shaft. He clicks his tongue.

“Titanium, which is not unexpected. But weighted. Unusual for a craft needle.” His eyes meet Mycroft’s. 

“Irina has an unabashed love affair with ancient and modern day weaponry. I expect those needles have come in handy for her.”

Sherlock slides the needle back into the bag and stays seated on the sofa. He flips an object onto the coffee table with a _thwack_. 

_Ah._ The black notebook. Mycroft’s stomach rolls, but he keeps his face impassive. 

Sherlock watches him, but his eyes aren’t filled with their usual loathing. Nothing is said. 

Irina walks through the room. “Can I get you and your brother some tea?” 

Sherlock’s chin snaps up to watch her cross to the kitchen. “Irina, I presume.” 

Irina nods. “Sherlock Holmes. It’s good to meet you,” she says, terse in her delivery.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t respond. Irina moves about the kitchen with practiced, easy movements and makes herself a cup of tea. Mycroft knows she’s just checking in on the atmosphere of the room. He’d told her about Sherlock’s last visit to him before the debacle at Sherrinford. 

She takes her tea into her room, but not until she nods to Sherlock and then gives a pleasant smile to Mycroft.

“Why is your security staff living with you?” Sherlock asks.

Mycroft’s hands tighten in his lap. His tongue pokes his cheek as he restrains himself from saying what he really wants to say. _Because of you. Because of Eurus. Because you will always lay your life down for John Watson but you won’t ever extend me the courtesy of a kind word until I am at my absolute lowest._ “Why are you here, Sherlock?”

“I want to understand why you left this in my flat,” he says as he gestures to the notebook. He almost sounds angry. 

“Have I not fulfilled your wishes? You will no longer have to suffer your interfering, overbearing elder brother.” Mycroft places his hands on the arms of the chair. “You have the family you want. I trust you’ll not endanger yourself or them.” He dons an air of indifference. “I think my role is quite finished.”

Sherlocks scoffs and turns his face away. “That seems unlikely.”

“I assure you; it is the truth.” Mycroft taps his fingers on the arms of the chair. “I am no longer in charge of the surveillance at Baker Street, or on you or Doctor Watson. Congratulations, Sherlock. You’re free of me.”

Then, he sees it. In the tapping of Sherlock’s foot. The tremble in his fingers. Even the muscle of his jaw as it twitches and the furrow of his brow. Sherlock purses his lips and releases a breath. 

_You’re supposed to be taking risks_. He leans forward, and says with as much nonchalance as he can muster, “Of course, Anthea will let me know if anything unusual or threatening should occur. She knows I...care. For you.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches just a little. His foot ceases its tapping and his fingers relax. He looks up at Mycroft and he smiles. His eyes glint with a mischief that takes Mycroft back to their childhood, when Sherlock used to pester Mycroft into paying attention to him. “I think Eurus broke you. You’ve gone mad.”  
  
Mycroft relaxes. “No. But I’ve ordered a lot of Chinese for tonight’s dinner. Care to join me and my staff?”  
  
Sherlock’s smile fades, but he tilts his chin in consideration. “Alright.”

Mycroft can’t help the smile that blooms on his face, and he doesn’t hide it from Sherlock. 

* * *

“Sir, the team that reviewed the footage of Sir Edwin’s time in Sherrinford missed something.” Anthea stands in his home office with her laptop in her hands open. 

Mycroft cringes. He’d thought to review the footage himself, but he’d been told Eurus had refused to speak with Edwin for the entirety of his time there. _You knew better._

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he replies with a dryness that could challenge a desert. 

“Lady Smallwood suggested that Sir Edwin was unduly influenced into this...bad behavior - her words, not mine,” says Anthea. She places the laptop on his desk so he can view the screen.

“She does have a soft spot for him.” Mycroft almost doesn’t want her to hit the play button. He’s seen enough of the interior of that cell. 

“Yes. Well, I watched the footage myself,” she says as she hits play.

Sir Edwin stands with his back to the camera. Eurus stands on her side of the glass - Mycroft can just see Edwin’s reflection, so he knows the glass exists. 

“Watch,” says Anthea.

Eurus’ arms hang at her sides, her hair draped about her shoulders, and her eyes…

Her eyes are blinking.

And not in a casual, reflexive manner. Not in an involuntary series of blinks. 

Purposeful, deliberate blinks.

“Morse code,” Mycroft says as a cold pit forms in his gut. 

“Precisely.” She hands him a sheet with her translation on it, though he can decipher Morse code for himself.

_I only wanted you to see me._

“It...it’s not a message for Sir Edwin.”

“No.”

“I…” Mycroft rubs his temple as the chill in his stomach threads its way through the fibers of his muscles and creeps across his skin. “This was before Christmas. Has she communicated like this since then?”

“I’ve asked Colin to go over the rest of the footage. He hasn’t found anything so far. Not even when Sherlock visits. She was entirely unresponsive on her birthday.”

Mycroft leans forward on the desk, putting his weight into his forearms, and clasps his hands together. 

“If anything, sir, I’d say it was an apology of sorts.” She says this if she begrudges it. 

Mycroft pulls his lips between his teeth as his shoulders tense. Anger washes through him, followed by a hot wave of shame, and finally, a cool rush of acceptance. “I can’t blame her for Sir Edwin’s agenda. He’d been planning this for some time, and even if he were influenced by her when she was earlier out and about in the world, he continued even after she’d become unresponsive.” He spreads his hands over the table, remembers once taking her hands in his own when he’d tried to be a big brother to her. “I used her badly. She...exacted her revenge, if you will. Now, she gives her apology. And I have given mine by stepping back and ensuring she is left in peace.”

He looks up at Anthea. “I won’t pick up the brush.”

Her eyes show her understanding, and she nods, seemingly pleased. “Right.” She closes the laptop and slides it into her bag. “I’m going to Whitehall, then. I’ll be in touch about the situation with the EU.”

“Mm.” Mycroft traces one finger over his lips. He calculates the likelihood that Eurus is expecting any sort of response - not that he’s going to give her one. He hears the click of Anthea’s heel as she heads for the door.

“Anthea?”

“Sir?”

“Excellent work,” he says with a smile.

Anthea blushes, though her smile could outshine a star. “Thank you, sir.”

She leaves. Mycroft swivels in his chair to the window, and looks out onto a cloudless, blue sky. 

* * *

He sits in the restaurant and fiddles with his serviette. _I shouldn’t have chosen here. He knows who I am. There’s no reason to show off._ The maitre d’, Charles, had seated him at the table, offered him the wine list and been overly solicitous. The sommelier stood against the wall by the bar and perked up when he saw Mycroft lift the wine list. Everything was white - the table, the upholstery of the chairs, the walls, and the ostentatious centerpieces: twigs of birch decked with paper roses. 

_This is too much. I’ve made a mistake._ Greg won’t feel himself here. To be honest, Mycroft doesn’t feel quite right here. He stands and heads to the front of the restaurant.

Charles, a short man with grey hair and a bushy mustache appears. Greg is behind him in a casual suit. One of the ones he likely wears for court. Mycroft can see the anxiety in his demeanor as he glances around the place. His face lights up when he sees Mycroft.

“Mr. Holmes? I was just bringing your guest -”

“Yes, thank you.” Mycroft stands there, feeling foolish. “But, I, erm...we won’t be needing the table. I’ve been called - so sorry, really.”

Greg’s face falls. 

“I mean...I shall have to leave, and Detective Inspector Lestrade will be accompanying me.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that.” Charles wrings his hands. “We will hear from you again, soon, won’t we?”

“Yes, of course, Charles.” Mycroft smiles at Greg, who returns it. Mycroft takes him by the elbow and guides him to the doors of the restaurant. 

Greg glances at him. “Do you have to go back to work?”

“No,” Mycroft says. “I just - don’t want to do this here.”

Greg quirks an eyebrow. “Do what?”

They walk through the doors and out into the night air. It feels cool against Mycroft’s skin, and in the lamplight, he’s reminded of their time standing in porchlight overlooking a Canadian mountainside. “It didn’t seem like the right place for this. For us.”

“For us?” 

“A stuffy, posh restaurant with upholstery that looks like it was made from the leftover scraps of a bridal gown? It’s where one dines a boorish foreign ambassador before passing him off to a duplicitous MP for a night in seedy clubs where you hope neither one will get caught by the paps. It’s dreadful. It’s not where we should begin.” Mycroft shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It’s a Friday night, and any place that takes a reservation will be full, unless I call in a favor. But, I’d rather we go somewhere you like to be.”

“Someplace I’d like to be?”

“Yes. My treat, of course. But I wish for you to choose the venue.”

Greg grins, all teeth and cocksure attitude. “Okay. Let’s go.”

* * *

Greg’s choice turns out to be a food truck that serves gyros and falafel. 

“I know this seems crazy, but the night is perfect for walking, and you never have to make a reservation,” Greg says. He looks to Mycroft for his reaction.

Mycroft shrugs and smiles. “Lead the way.”

Greg’s face relaxes. Jean and Irina stand by the car as Mycroft and Greg walk toward the truck. Mycroft texts them to let them know that Greg and he will walk a while together. They’ll follow far enough back to give a semblance of privacy, of course. 

As they approach the food truck, tantalizing scents of the grill saturate the air. A couple stands at the window. The woman laughs and leans her head against the shoulder of the man beside her. They’re tall, attractive, with sandy blond hair and stylish clothes. She glances back at Greg and Mycroft and gives them a friendly smile. Greg nods and Mycroft ducks his chin. A man with skin the color of raw sienna grins at them and asks them for their order. Greg offers to order for him, and Mycroft, somewhat charmed, acquiesces. 

“I’m still paying, however,” he reminds Greg.

“Deal,” Greg says with a flash of teeth. He orders two gyros, checks with Mycroft about the level of spice, and has the guy add hot sauce to both wraps. Mycroft pays.

“Uh, I guess I didn’t really think about how messy this is,” Greg says as he eyes Mycroft’s wool scarf and overcoat. He grabs more napkins.

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft says as he peels back the aluminum wrapper to reveal a sight of grilled pita stuffed with chicken, onion, tomato, and tzatziki, spattered with the brilliant cadmium red of the hot sauce like veins of lava across a field. The fragrance punches the air and fills his nostrils as he inhales. The first bite is a blast of spice and flavor like no other gyro Mycroft has ever had. He’s not above street food, having been in situations that required something quick and easy. But this, this is like biting into a little piece of heaven on earth.

“This is exquisite,” he says after swallowing. 

“I’m of the opinion that this is the best food truck in London,” Greg says with a twinkle in his eyes. “And I’ve tried a lot of them while on the job.”

“I can well imagine,” Mycroft replies before going in for another bite.

“You’ve got just a bit…” Greg reaches over and with one light touch, wipes away at something near the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, brushing his finger through the short hairs of Mycroft’s beard. “You’ve really got a lot of ginger. I didn’t know your hair was dyed all that time.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I started as a young man when I wanted to be taken more seriously by my superiors. I had many ideas back then about how one should present themselves.”

“And now?”

“I have no superiors. Only a system of checks and balances,” Mycroft admits.

“I had suspected,” Greg says, though his expression seems a bit awed.

“I’ve delegated some of my work to Anthea,” he says.

“As if she weren’t scary enough already.”

Mycroft chortles. “Exactly part of the reason why I hired her.”

They walk a while and eat their gyros. Streetlights cast washes of thin yellow light over everything. The moonlight is a diluted blue-gray in the clouds. Greg tells him a funny story about a woman who called because she found a secret room in her house that contained a skeleton. The skeleton turned out to be rubber. 

“Can you imagine if you were the previous owner? You find this room that’s not on any of the blueprints, you don’t tell the realtor, and when you move, you leave a gag like that behind?” Greg laughs, throaty and wild. Mycroft can’t help but join him.

“I get the feeling you approve of the previous owner’s prank?”

“Well, aside from the waste of police time, I can appreciate a good laugh.” 

They roll up their wrappers and chuck them into a bin. They gaze at one another. The air feels weighted. Mycroft’s heart rate speeds up.

“Can I...invite you back to mine?” Mycroft says.

Greg’s eyes grow dark, and his smile is slow and sultry. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Mycroft texts Irina, who has been in the area with the car while Jean has been walking a ways behind them. He preens with a strange sort of pride as he opens the door for Greg and guides him into the car with one hand on the small of his back. They’ve barely touched one another but the atmosphere is charged. He slides in after Greg and thanks Jean for closing the door. He doesn’t miss Jean’s answering wink. 

* * *

Henri has started a fire in the hearth, and retreated to his room. Mycroft and Greg stand by the fire and sip glasses of whisky. There’s an electric current flowing between them, and Mycroft finds himself overcome with the headiness of anticipation. 

“Where’s your studio?” Greg asks.

“Upstairs. Would you care to see it?”

Greg’s eyebrows waggle. “Well, I said I’d pose for you, didn’t I?” 

Mycroft’s stomach burns with whisky. He smiles, and holds his hand out to Greg. As their fingers close about each other’s palms, he feels a thrill jolt down his spine.

He leads Greg to the studio, whisky in hand. Greg glances around the room, releases his hold on their hands, and heads to the portrait of himself. “This is a new one,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is.” Mycroft knows he must be beaming.

“I know I said what I said earlier with a lot of...innuendo...but I meant what I said. I want to pose for you.”

Mycroft’s brow lifts. “Right now?”

Greg gives a chuckle, as if he’s nervous. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be tonight -”

“No. Let’s do this now.” Mycroft sets his glass on the table and takes off his jacket. He hangs it on the back of the door. “Please. Take the stool and set it up in the corner there.” He removes his cufflinks and rolls up his sleeves. Greg moves the stool and sits, his feet resting on the bottom rung with his legs spread slightly open.

Mycroft grabs his smock - an oversized button down - and pulls it on. Greg watches him with his dark eyes and a creeping blush across his face. Mycroft smiles. “Relax. I feel I must warn you, however, that it has been some time since I’ve had someone to pose for me.”

“Should I...remove anything?” Greg winks at him.

Mycroft smiles. “Roll up your sleeves. Place your hands on your thighs. Angle your body to your left just a bit. The light will catch you nicely, there.”

“Like this?” Greg says after rolling up his sleeves and turning his body.

“A little bit toward me - move the one leg toward - wait, I’ll help.” Mycroft walks over. He asks, with his voice on a lower register, “May I touch you?”

“Please,” Greg says in an answering tone that is sensual and suggestive. Mycroft touches his thigh, and pulls it slightly to Greg’s right, as he keeps the other to the left with a light touch, the tip of the long middle finger on his subject’s inner adductor. Greg’s breath hitches. Mycroft avoids looking at his eyes as he reaches up to cup Greg’s cheek, and moves his face more into the light. He takes Greg’s right hand and places it on his right thigh. He could take a step forward and slot himself right between Greg’s spread legs, but he doesn’t. He looks at Greg’s face, with his hooded eyes and hears a soft exhalation of his breath. Greg’s eyes are moving from Mycroft’s waist, over his chest and across his shoulders, finally ending with Mycroft’s own. Mycroft leans forward, and their lips press together. The warmth reverberates throughout Mycroft’s body like a sound wave across an eardrum - intimate. 

He steps back, and what he sees is exactly what he wants. Greg on the precipice of wanting and having. His lips full and kissable, his eyes full of desire, and his pose tense but sexy. Greg smiles, slow and evocative. “That was really nice,” he says.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Perhaps we can continue later tonight?”

Greg’s face lights up. _Now._ Mycroft’s chest swells with a bubble of ecstasy. _He’s perfect._ “Like that. Stay like that,” he says, and grabs a canvas and sets it upon the easel. “I’ll sketch you like this. I can paint it at a later time. I believe we have other activities to attend to.” He winks at Greg, who grins at him.

As he lays in his rough sketch, his esquisse, he almost forgets that it’s Greg he’s seeing. Greg becomes shapes and shadows, parts of a whole. If the brain tells you “this is what an ear looks like,” then you’re not really seeing the ear - you’re drawing what your brain tells you an ear is. To paint, to truly capture a likeness, you have to deconstruct what you’re seeing. Highlights and shadows are shaped by angles. That’s how, all those years ago, Mycroft was able to assemble shapes of negative space, and reveal a positive composition of a teakettle and a stool.

The truth of this process hasn’t changed. 

_Life is full of surprises._ The thought enters Mycroft’s head unbidden. He'd thought his path was laid out before him. He used his skills and his proclivities for the safety of England, and the safety of his family. But, he’d ignored the fact that he had other talents. His art, to be sure, but most importantly, his heart.

That’s how he realized that the negative space isn’t always dark. As he sketched the man before him, the composite of shapes and shadows, angles and lines, he found himself again, in the light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> If you want more of this Mycroft, and you NEED more Mystrade with him, you're in luck. The next installment, _The Hue of Loss_ , is being planned and outlined this month. There will be many, many more scenes with Greg. We'll see Mycroft try on a new career as he remains in a consulting position with his old one. The working summary reads like this at the moment: _An unexpected death in the family shakes Mycroft to his core. Continuing his journey into what it means to grieve and to forgive, he also learns what it means to be loved. Perhaps caring is an advantage, after all._
> 
> The playlist that helped me to write this story can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5OalytfKRvnW5WtwLCAwkH). 
> 
> Subscribe to this series or my author username to be updated! You can also find out about what I'm working on by following me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/vulpesmellifera) or on [Tumblr](https://vulpesmellifera.tumblr.com/). I'm also Vulpesmellifera on Pillowfort and Dreamwidth, but I am far more active on the former two platforms. 
> 
> If you like magical realism and want to see a Mycroft with a unique perspective, check out my story [The Tenth Muse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1317716). 
> 
> For a oneshot with a possessive Mycroftian perspective, check out [Sun Bleached](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905373). 
> 
> As for upcoming fics, I am about to dive into editing my Mystrade in Space AU "A Field of Stars." It deals with space terrorism, a cultural revolution, and a long-term space mission in danger of never becoming reality - which could throw the human species into extinction. 
> 
> I'm currently writing a Falconer!Greg and Birder!Mycroft AU that takes place in New England. It's a wonderfully soppy romance all from Greg's POV, and it's full of beautiful, natural settings and plenty of adorable owls and sharp-sighted hawks as supporting characters. 
> 
> If either of these stories interest you, be sure to subscribe to my username. 
> 
> Another round of applause for my amazing betas, notjustmom and ReynardinePotter. Seriously, this story was improved with their diligent effort. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I have enjoyed writing this story for you, and I hope you have your own light to help you navigate the path of your life. <3
> 
> Cheers,  
> Vulpes


End file.
